Speechless
by Cameron-Sholto
Summary: OOTV CANON. A series of moments in the intricate relationship between Sherlock and Lestrade over the years they've known each other. To be read along with Speechless by Lady GaGa.
1. Prologue: The First Case

**Speechless**

**Prologue: The First Case (Collab with The Troll)**

**_Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock, nor any of the characters therein. Lyrics referenced in the course of this fic are property of Lady GaGa and are used merely as a framework._**

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><p><strong>London: May 16, 2004<strong>

There was a knock on the door, loud and persistent.

"What is it?"

Detective Inspector Lestrade sighed, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. Whatever cause this person had to rouse him, it was sure to be urgent. He glanced over at Aster, smiling gently as she stirred in her sleep. He was grateful that his young wife was such a sound sleeper.

The knock again.

He groaned, climbing out of bed and pulling his shirt on, buttoning it as he opened the door.

The young officer looking at him seemed shaken. He searched his head for the lad's name. _Walters?_ Yes. Walters. He was new to Homicide.

"Yes, what is it?" he repeated.

"Sir. There's been. . . There's been a murder."

Lestrade sighed once more. "Where?"

"West End. In the Globe Theatre. It's. .. it's terrible, sir."

"Yes, well, I suppose it is. Murders generally are."

He grabbed his coat, following the young man to his car.

They made the ride to the scene in relative silence. The young officer clearly was having trouble processing. Lestrade wondered if it was his first homicide. Probably was. Lestrade's reasons were slightly different.

He had seen this before.

When they arrived at the Globe, the first thing Lestrade noticed was the smell. It was not the usual reek of blood and fear that accompanied a violent death. No, something new. Oil, perhaps? He shook his head. Something wasn't right about this.

The scene itself was grizzly to a fault. The deceased was lying on centre stage, a fencing foil piercing his heart. Strangely enough, there was little blood on the body or the stage, as though he had been drained first. His body was naked, covered with intricate carvings of what appeared to be flowers which just barely marred the skin. The man's eyes were wide with terror. His left hand was resting on a human skull that seemed to grin sickeningly at the officers who patrolled the scene.

Lestrade turned to the young forensics officer.

"Anderson. What do you make of this?"

The young man stared solemnly at him. "Well, sir, we've identified the man as John Fox. He was starring in Hamlet. And, well, it would appear he still is. We think the cause of death was actually poisoning. There was residue of nightshade on the blade of the foil."

There was a faint snicker. Lestrade turned to look, but could see no one. It was probably his imagination.

"I think, sir, that whoever did this was jealous of Fox's success. This looks like the work of an understudy, perhaps? We're still looking for fingerprints."

That snicker again.

Lestrade looked up at the box seats. There, just near the top, crouched a man in black. And he was grinning.

He bounded up the steps after the man, shouting to the others to cover the exits. But it was too late. The man was gone.

Suddenly, his phone beeped. He pulled it out. A text. The number was withheld.

_It wasn't jealousy. I will contact you again when you are ready to hear me out.. -SH_

* * *

><p><strong>May 18, 2004<strong>

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade rubbed his bloodshot eyes with the palm of his hand, sighing in frustration. 3 AM already, and what had he accomplished? Bloody nothing. No leads whatsoever. Not that there was a lack of evidence. Frankly, there was too much. The Globe was a high-traffic area: thousands of people must have passed through each day, and nearly all of them left behind fingerprints, saliva, hair. . . He had to face it. Forensics was going to get him nowhere.

He stared down at the folder he'd compiled on the homicide: John Fox, an accomplished Shakespearean actor, had been found by a rather traumatized young usheress before the evening performance of Hamlet in the historic Globe Theatre. In its second week, the production was slated to be a hit, with Fox in the title role. And with his death, it was sure to be remembered.

The murderer had flair, he'd give them that much. He stared at the crime scene photographs, the carved naked flesh, the lack of blood. . . Whoever had done this had a lot of time on their hands.

Lestrade sipped at his coffee, which had long since gone cold, and grimaced at the bitter taste. He was accustomed to cream in his coffee, but his last carton, like his optimism, had turned sour.

He hated this. Every minute that he let the killer run free through the streets of London, his city, more people were at risk. And every murder was his responsibility. It didn't matter how many criminals he pulled from the streets. More cropped up all the time like heads from a hydra. Keeping order in the city was a losing battle. He knew it. His men knew it. Worse, the citizens under his protection knew it. And there was nothing he could do about it.

"What the hell am I supposed to do now?" he muttered to himself.

Soft footfalls replied to his query as Aster stepped groggily into the kitchen, yawning. Her long dark hair was mussed by restless sleep, curling about the shoulders of her pale blue nightgown like a raven waterfall. She smiled worriedly at her husband, green eyes soft with sympathy and concern.

"You're still working? Greg, you need to sleep."

"I need to finish this. I have to understand. . . I have to catch this -" he was cut off by his own yawn.

She shook her head, kissing him affectionately on the top of his head, ruffling his silvering hair like that of a schoolboy.

"You will. I have faith in you, Greg. And so do the people of London. But if you run yourself ragged, you'll be of no use to anyone. You know that. Please, come back to bed. You can get back to work with a fresh eye tomorrow."

He smiled up at her, smiling warmly. She was right, of course. She always was. That was one of the many reasons why he had married her in the first place.

"I'll be right there."

He watched her stalk out of the room, sighing softly. She may be right. But he still couldn't shake the feeling that. . .

His phone beeped, startling him out of his reverie. It was a text message.

_Ready yet? -SH_


	2. Chapter 1 Part 1: What You Said To Me

**Speechless**

**Chapter 1.1: What You Said To Me**

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><p>The message had not included a meeting place, or even the suggestion of a meeting. Thus, it was through some powerful instinctual draw that Lestrade found himself back at the entrance to the Globe. He deftly ducked under the caution tape, gently pushing the wooden door open.<p>

It was dark inside the theatre, as one could expect from an open-air venue in the wee hours of the morning. The only sounds were the slight creaking of the aging stage as it stirred like an arthritic beast in its slumber and the soft echoes of the detective's own breath.

"You came alone."

The deep voice startled Lestrade. He always hated this part, when he was seen but the stranger was still invisible, a wisp and nothing more. He gulped, hoping that he could conceal the fear in his voice. He really should have called for backup. In fact, he shouldn't be here at all. He should be in bed with his wife. This game was a game for younger men.

"Yes," he replied simply, though as he said it, it dawned on him that the man had not asked him a question. Rather than a query, it was a statement of fact.

"Good."

He could almost feel the smile in the tone of the stranger's voice, and for some reason that frightened him even more.

"You said you could help," he blurted rather abruptly, as though the lingering smile would swallow him whole.

Suddenly, he saw a flicker of movement in the darkness, the black coattails vanishing once more from view. He bolted up on the stage, following the only lead he had into the dark alley behind the theatre.

* * *

><p>He searched frantically for the source of the voice for some minutes before he heard a familiar chuckle from behind him.<p>

"No wonder you haven't cracked it yet. Can't even find me. Idiot."

Lestrade spun around, coming face to face with. . .

He could only describe the man huddled against the wall as Death itself. His pale skin clung tightly to his body like cellophane, revealing every twist of sinew and bone beneath them. Sunken eyes almost unbelievably blue glowed at him from under a tangle of matted dark hair. He leaned forward to get a better look at him, only to reel back in disgust at the stench of piss and rot that reeked from the man.

The man shuddered, drawing his threadbare, patch-covered black coat around himself with skeletal fingers to shield himself from the spring chill.

Lestrade frowned, tearing his own coat off himself and wrapping it about the man. No one, not even a washed-up street addict, deserved to freeze to death alone in the gutters of a heartless city.

The man glared up at him. "Thanks," he snarled. Clearly, he did not really want to be helped.

"Who are you, and what do you know about the homicide of John Fox?" asked Lestrade point-blank. There was no sense wasting time, especially when this man very well could be the murderer.

The man rolled his eyes. "_Homicides."_

Lestrade stared at him. "Sorry, _what_?"

"_Homicides_. As in multiple. As in serial killer. I told you before, it's not about revenge. There have been at least three now, in different theatres, years apart. That's why no one's noticed. But it's all a pattern. Don't you see?"

He stared at the man, confused. "No, I don't see."

"Why is everyone so stupid? Come on, Detective Inspector! It's right in front of you! The Lear murder, 1995. The so-called Macbeth suicide, 1999 -"

Lestrade sighed. "But I worked on both those cases. And we know Kinley's death was a suicide. She stabbed herself with a dagger on New Year's Eve because she thought the world was ending."

"Right. Onstage. Because people often commit suicide in public places right before curtain call."

"You don't think we were thorough?" He was getting visibly annoyed with the man. After all, he was one of the best detectives in all of London. Even as humble as he was, he could only bear being insulted for so long.

The man smiled sardonically. "Oh, you were thorough. Just not thorough enough."

"And what could we have possibly done differently, if you know so much?"

"You could have been working with me." He held out his hand towards the detective, who took it gingerly. "The name's Sherlock Holmes."

"Ok, Mr. Holmes. You've had your fun. Now let's say I play along. Do you really think you can find this killer?"

"Oh, absolutely. And Sherlock, by the way. I prefer Sherlock."

Lestrade stared at him. With that level of confidence, the grungy ball of tattered clothes and bones in front of him was either a madman or a genius. Either way, he was intrigued.

"And if you help me, _Sherlock, _what do you expect in return?"

"I want a full-time partnership. Any time you get a good case, one with a lot of violence and things that don't make sense, I want you to call me, understand?"

"And why would I do that?"

The man reached up quickly, grabbing the detective roughly by his shirt collar and pulling him close with significant strength.

"_Because you need me," _he whispered intensely into Lestrade's ear._ "You just don't know it yet."_


	3. Chapter 1 Part 2: You Gave Up

**Speechless**

**Chapter 1.2: You Gave Up**

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><p>As he drove home, coatless and even more confused than he had been before meeting the enigmatic homeless man, Lestrade pondered exactly how fired he would be if he handed over copies of his case files to such a man.<p>

The answer, he decided, was very.

And yet, he could not shake what Sherlock had said to him. _You need me._ The words echoed in his mind like some sort of oracle.

London was on the brink of disaster every day. The right crime going unpunished at absolutely the wrong time could easily lead to chaos in a city deep in the grip of class warfare. The city had never been safe, but Lestrade often wondered if perhaps when his children were born they should be raised elsewhere.

_You need me._

Hundreds of cases slid across his desk every month. He had taken to sorting them into three piles: Misfiled, Homicide, and Straight to Cold Case. And the last pile had been getting larger every week. For every crime his department could solve, four would never be solved. Violent crime was on the rise, and it was harder to bring justice to a dying city.

_You need me._

His staff were overworked, underpaid, and pessimistic. It seemed like they were getting visibly older and more jaded by the hour, and he could do nothing to raise their spirits. How could he, when he was as world-weary as the rest of them?

_You need me._

"Damn it, he's right."

He sighed, turning his car around and speeding back to the theatre.

* * *

><p>It didn't take Lestrade long to find the place again, but when he got there, he was nearly too late.<p>

Sherlock was curled tightly in a ball near where the detective had left him, shuddering. Lestrade initially assumed that it was because the man was still cold, but as he touched his shoulder cautiously, he could feel warmth emanating off the man's body.

"Are you alright?" he asked cautiously, brown eyes warm with concern.

The other man turned his head slightly to look at him. His eyes were bloodshot and beginning to glaze over. He muttered incoherently under his breath as his face spasmed. Whatever was happening to him, it was definitely not good.

"I'm calling an ambulance," stated Lestrade matter-of-factly.

Sherlock's eyes grew wide in panic. "N-no!" he protested. "Please."

Lestrade sighed. Clearly, whatever was wrong with the man was something he didn't want doctors involved in. He nodded gently, though he wondered silently exactly what kind of trouble this man had gotten himself in. Probably drug withdrawl.

"Well, I'm not leaving you here. Come on."

Ignoring the sickly man's protests, he threw him over his shoulder and half-dragged half-carried him back to his car.

* * *

><p>By the time Lestrade had gotten back to his flat, the man's shaking had subsided. He looked over at him, his heart catching in his throat. The man was even paler than when they had met, if that were possible, and his face was slick with sweat.<p>

"I really should get you to a hospital," Lestrade muttered to the unconscious man. "But fine. We'll do it your way."

He carried the man up the stairs to his apartment. Though Sherlock was light as a child, Lestrade still had trouble hauling his dead weight up the two flights. As he huffed in front of his door, he reminded himself that it was really time to go on a diet.

He was just about to fit his key to the door when it burst open, revealing Aster, her eyes aflame.

"And where the hell have you been? I told you, you have to get some sleep! And -"

She paused, noticing the man draped across his shoulder.

"No. No no. How many times have I told you not to bring strangers home?"

He sighed, pleading with her with his eyes.

"He's in trouble, Aster. Please, just for today."

She lifted Sherlock's head by his hair, wincing at the grease and filth of the tangled mess. He moaned gently, but did not open his eyes.

"A drug addict. Perfect."

"Please."

She sighed in resignation, waving idly at the bathroom.

"Suit yourself. But at least give him a bath. And he's your responsibility, Greg. I'll be at my mother's until he's gone."

He nodded, smiling in relief. "That's fair. I'll call you when he's gone."

As his wife returned to the bedroom to pack her things, he turned his attention to Sherlock, lugging him into the bathroom and leaning him against the tub. Then he stared at him for a few moments, willing himself to do what he had to do.

Lestrade was hardly squeamish, but the idea of stripping a grown man naked and washing his unconscious flesh seemed more than a little invasive. What if the man woke up while he was washing him? He had seemed friendly enough in the alley, but the cold intensity in those eyes. . . Lestrade did not want to be on the wrong end of that glare, that was for sure.

He inhaled deeply, rolling up his sleeves and starting the water. The sooner he got this over with, the better.

It didn't take him long to remove Sherlock's clothes. Most of them were practically falling off already. Lestrade started folding the torn shirt, threadbare trousers, and patched coat before he simply shook his head. These needed to be burned.

As he gently scrubbed the filth off of the homeless man with an old washcloth, holding his head out of the warm water with one arm, he was shocked to realize how young he was. The skeletal face, once cleared of grime, proved to be of a man barely a man at all. He couldn't be much more than twenty, but his body had suffered all manners of abuse. Bruises both fresh and faded revealed themselves, as did needle marks all over his thin arms. Lestrade smoothed over them gently with his fingers, frowning sadly. Heroin? No, the needle marks were too thin for that. Some other drug, then. Probably cocaine.

As he reached up to shampoo the young man's hair, long, bony fingers curled lightly about his wrist. He gasped in shock, staring into those glowing sea breeze eyes.

"You. . . don't have to. ." muttered Sherlock, still barely conscious.

Lestrade smiled at him, his heart breaking a little with the look of desperation on the younger man's face.

"Yes, I do. Now rest. Everything will be alright."

"I. . ."

Sherlock's voice trailed off as he faded once more out of consciousness.

* * *

><p>Lestrade sat on the corner of his bed, watching Sherlock sleep. He had barely known the man a few hours, and yet he felt an overwhelming need to keep him safe at any cost.<p>

He had tried to feed him, but could only get him to swallow some weak broth and tea. He knew that the younger man was going to need something more substantial, but he did not know how to get him to keep it down. He smiled softly, brushing strands of still-damp hair away from Sherlock's face. Once clean, his hair was really quite beautiful and soft, almost like Aster's. Lestrade couldn't help but wonder what had happened to bring someone like Sherlock to the dark place he'd found him.

He shook his head. It didn't really matter. Not any more. Now that he was under Lestrade's watchful eye, whatever had happened would never happen again.


	4. Chapter 1 Part 3: James Dean Glossy Eyes

**Speechless**

**Chapter 1.3: James Dean Glossy Eyes**

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><p><strong>May 19, 2004<strong>

It was well into the next morning when Sherlock finally woke to more than just a glassy half-consciousness. By that point, Lestrade had fallen asleep in a chair beside the bed, his body bent nearly double as he slumped forward, forehead resting against the blue-flowered bedspread Aster had picked out.

He was roused by the odd sensation of being tilted backwards, and looked up groggily to meet the bright intelligent eyes of the man he had pulled off the street.

"Good morning, detective," said Sherlock, his deep voice rich with bemusement.

Lestrade shuddered, though he wasn't entirely sure why. Something in that tone just. . .

"Morning?" He asked, stretching. His back cracked stiffly as he tried to get into a somewhat more professional position, and he groaned softly. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Well, judging by what time we met and the time on the alarm clock by your bed, it's been a good twenty hours since you brought me here. How long you've been asleep is harder to deduce, since I was unconscious well before you were. But judging by the amount of drool you've left on the bedspread, I'd say at least five hours."

Lestrade looked down at the bed, blushing slightly as he noted that the man was right. He had left a bit of a wet spot on the comforter.

"Great." He smiled up at the man, who was staring rather quizzically at the clothes Lestrade had dressed him in the morning before. It wasn't easy finding clothes that fit him, so he had been forced to make do with a pair of blue drawstring flannel pants that he'd tied as tight as possible and one of his tighter-fitting white t-shirts. Even the smallest shirt he owned made Sherlock look like a seven year old who had gotten into daddy's closet. He smiled at the image of Sherlock as a child, then shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

"Right. Well, I'm going to go make some breakfast for us then. What are you in the mood for?"

"I'm not," muttered Sherlock.

Lestrade stared at him in dismay. "You aren't hungry?"

The younger man smiled enigmatically. "I don't really eat," he replied.

"No wonder you're so emaciated. Come on. At least some beans and toast."

"Really, you don't have to bother. You've done more than enough for me already."

Lestrade glared at him.

"I don't think you understand, Sherlock. That isn't a request."

"Just because you're used to people following your orders, Detective Inspector -"

He couldn't hold back any longer. Lestrade grabbed the man roughly by the shoulders and shook him violently.

"That is _not_ what this is about," he shouted, eyes aflame. "You said you wanted to work with me. Fine. I can use all the help I can get. But what use to me are you if you are so starved that you can't even think properly, or so messed up from drugs that you can't even move? I was willing to overlook all that because it's none of my business."

He gripped the man's arms tighter, as if trying to inject common sense into him through his fingers. "But I guess that's not really true, is it? Here I've brought you into my home, bathed you, clothed you, and trusted you not to murder me in my sleep, and I don't even really know who you are! If I'm supposed to trust you, I need to be able to rely on you. And I can't if you're dead."

Sherlock looked away awkwardly. It was clear that he wasn't used to someone actually caring if he lived or died. Lestrade's face and voice softened in compassion, but his harsh tone remained.

"So here's the deal. You _will_ go into the kitchen. You _will_ sit at the table and eat every bite of the breakfast I'm going to make for you. And you will bloody well _enjoy _it. If you refuse, I will arrest you for the murder of John Fox."

Sherlock smirked slightly at this, making eye contact for the first time since Lestrade began shouting at him.

"But why would you do that? You don't think I'm guilty, do you?"

"Of course not." Lestrade smiled wickedly at him. He knew that he'd backed the younger man into a corner, and God help him, he was enjoying it. "But at least in prison they'll make sure you get three meals a day, have adequate clothing, and a roof over your head."

Sherlock nodded in approval. "Well played, Lestrade. You aren't as stupid as I thought. Fine. I'll eat your damned breakfast."

* * *

><p>As they ate a hearty meal of eggs, toast, and Lestrade's rather sad attempt at pancakes, Some colour started spreading to Sherlock's face. Lestrade smiled at this sign of life returning. It reminded him of a time when he was just a boy, when he had rescued a particularly unhappy mouse from a trap his father had set. He had nursed it back to health in secret, then released it. . .<p>

Of course, being a mouse, he had found it dead in the same trap no more than a week later. He hoped his latest project survived a bit longer than that. Though, judging by the way the man was picking at his food. . .

He coughed, drawing the bemused gaze of his breakfast companion.

"Yes? What is it?"

Lestrade nodded at Sherlock's plate. "I expect you to finish that. I told you before, eating is important."

"Eating's boring. When are we going to get back to that delicious case of yours?"

He sighed. "Fine. I can still have you arrested, you know."

"But you won't. Even if you want to, you won't."

"And why's that?"

"Because you're starting to like having me around. I can tell by the way you're sitting. Legs crossed, but to the left, not the right. That suggests comfort and ease of mind. Back straight, but not rigid. Clearly, you're rather enjoying me as a challenge. And then there's your hands."

Lestrade smirked at him. This was bullshit. "My hands?"

Sherlock smirked back. "Yes, your hands. You've been fiddling with them all through breakfast."

"I thought that meant discomfort," muttered Lestrade, quickly hiding his hands behind his back.

"Only if you were wringing your fingers. But you haven't been. You've been caressing the tops of your hands with your thumbs in circular motions. And that implies something else entirely."

"And what's that?" Lestrade really didn't want to know. As a police officer, he believed in body language. But this man. . . He confused the hell out of him.

To his relief, the younger man simply winked at him and dropped the subject. "So you won't arrest me. But I know that, in about thirty seconds, you'll sigh in exasperation and hand me the case folder. And before you ask, no, I'm not psychic."

"Then how could you possibly know that?"

He looked at him with a note of seriousness in his blue eyes. "Because, as I told you before, you need me. A hell of a lot more than I need you."

Lestrade felt the bottom fall out of his stomach. He'd known Sherlock didn't really want his help. But all the same, couldn't he be at least a tiny bit grateful?

He sighed in exasperation and handed him the case folder. Not that it mattered.

"Fine. But we're doing this my way. You stay close to me at all times. No wandering off. And don't touch anything without asking first. I'm breaking enough regulations just letting you tag along. I don't need a suspension right now."

"Mhm," muttered Sherlock distractedly, his eyes bright with interest as he read through the file.

Lestrade grimaced. There was no way the man was actually going to do a damn thing he asked of him, was there?


	5. Chapter 1 Part 4: Your Tight Jeans

**Speechless**

**Chapter 1.4: Your Tight Jeans and Your Long Hair**

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><p>"I suppose you'll want to follow me back to New Scotland Yard, right?" Lestrade smirked at Sherlock.<p>

The younger man sighed. "Not particularly. Still, I suppose it might help me get a feel for how badly your people are mucking this case up."

Lestrade glared at him. "Well, you'd better not say that to them, all right?"

"And why not? It's the truth."

His fist hit the table before he even realized what he was doing. "Because it's bloody rude! You can't treat people like that!"

"So I'm to play nice and pretend they aren't all incompetent fools, hmm? Ok, I suppose I can try."

Lestrade felt a sharp stab to his gut at Sherlock's backhanded agreement. He wondered what the man thought of him. Did he lump him into that category, after everything he'd. . . but it didn't really matter. All that mattered was catching the killer before he struck again.

"Come on," he said softly. "We need to find you some clothes."

* * *

><p>Dressing Sherlock continued to prove a challenge as all of Lestrade's clothes were either too loose or too short on the lanky man. They finally settled on a loose white button-up tucked into a pair of Aster's black jeans. Even his wife's pants wouldn't stay on the man without a belt, but it was better than nothing.<p>

Lestrade frowned at the man in front of him. He looked ridiculous.

"I don't know. We don't really have time to go shopping, but. . ."

Sherlock smirked, his blue eyes playful. "What? Think I'll embarrass you in front of your friends, Lestrade?"

"Yes." He grinned. "But not because of your clothes."

Lestrade pulled his long black coat off of the chair where he had laid it the night before after stripping it off the unconscious Sherlock, and handed it to him.

"Put this on. It'll make the shirt look less tent like."

Sherlock complied, then looked at himself in the full-length mirror critically. When he turned back to the detective, his eyes were radiant.

"You do know I'm never giving this back, don't you?"

Lestrade chuckled nervously. He had to admit, the look worked for him. It was certainly better than the rags he'd been wearing when they met. And besides, he could always get a new coat. . . Though Aster would probably murder him when she found out. The coat had been a Christmas present, and he suspected had been more than a little out of budget. He gulped at the thought of the firestorm to come.

"It suits you," he replied cautiously.

"Great!" replied Sherlock. "Now, can we go? I'm getting bored."

Lestrade sighed as the man dragged him outside. This was going to be a long case.

* * *

><p>As they drove to the station, Lestrade fiddled with the radio nervously. Sherlock had been strangely silent, and he didn't like quiet that much. He smiled as he hit upon a station playing turn-of-the-century ballads. Old love songs were a secret indulgence of his, and the one currently playing was one of his favorites.<p>

He hummed along to himself, singing snatches of the chorus under his breath. There was nothing more soothing than a light-hearted melody and simple words in light of all the chaos and anguish he had witnessed. To know that somewhere, even if just in the collective unconscious, there was a place of innocence and love. . . That was what gave him the strength to keep defending his ungrateful city.

"Let me hear you whisper that you love me too," he sang softly.

His reverie was broken by a loud cackling noise from the passenger seat. He slammed on the breaks in panic, having forgotten all about his passenger.

"What the hell?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I was being a dolphin."

Lestrade stared at him, mystified and still trying to calm down his racing heart. "Why? For the love of God, why would you do that?"

He rolled his eyes. "Clearly, you need to spend more time reading your case files. _Let Me Hear You Whisper _was the last production Fox did before Hamlet. Played the dolphin. Not exactly the role for a leading man."

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "So what does that have to do with you being a driving hazard?"

Sherlock gasped, grabbing the wheel. "Let's go! To the radio station! Dinner says the killer's there!"

"But what about my team?"

"Oh, I'll text them while you drive. Go!"

Lestrade sped off, breaking more than a few traffic laws. He gulped, thinking about how much trouble he was going to be in if the man next to him was wrong. And how much did he really know about him, anyway?

He had no reason to trust Sherlock. The man was a homeless junkie who made ridiculous claims and didn't understand the first thing about common decency. What was he even doing with such a man? Lestrade had always had a reputation for being level-headed and by the book. In the course of a few days, he had thrown all of that out of the window. And for what? The hunches of a man barely older than a schoolboy?

"I'm not wrong, you know," muttered Sherlock. "So you can stop worrying. I don't have hunches. I have conclusions. And I know I'm right."

He waved Lestrade's phone at him. "Besides, your people are on their way. Though why that would make you feel any more secure is beyond me."

Lestrade shot him a quick look of surprise. "And when did you nick my mobile?"

"Oh, a while ago. You really need to learn to be more observant."

* * *

><p>As Sherlock had said, Lestrade's team had arrived on the scene before they did, and had already taken the liberty of forming a perimeter.<p>

"Status report," barked Lestrade as he leapt from the car.

Anderson nodded. "No one's been in or out for the last five minutes. If the killer's here, he's not going anywhere."

Sherlock glared at the man. "And what if he left before you got here, hmm?"

Anderson turned to Lestrade, gesturing at the man. "Who's he then? I thought you didn't like spectators."

Sherlock hissed slightly at being called a spectator.

Lestrade sighed. "Relax, he's with me." He turned to Sherlock. "You think he fled?"

"No. But if he did, he probably hasn't gotten far. Have your men widen the perimeter."

"But we don't even know who we're looking for," retorted Anderson, clearly not taking kindly to being given orders by a civilian.

"Of course you don't. But I do."

He pulled out a newish-looking Nokia smartphone from his pocket and began typing on it. Suddenly, he brightened.

"Mark Ferris. Well-known DJ and theatre patron. Here's his website."

He handed the device to Lestrade, who looked at him critically.

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

Lestrade turned to his men. "You're looking for a man in his mid-forties, blonde hair, green eyes. Short and squat."

As they headed off to search for the man, Lestrade pulled Sherlock aside.

"Where did you get this, Sherlock? This is a brand new phone, and you can't even afford clothing."

He stared into Lestrade's eyes, boring deeply and intensely into him. Lestrade could feel his face pale as he responded.

"You already know the answer. I stole it."

"You. . . You really shouldn't be telling me that."

"Shouldn't I?" he murmured. Sherlock's eyes softened with a glint of what seemed to be an overwhelming sadness just barely concealed by sarcasm. He stepped closer to the detective until he could feel the man's breath on his cheek. "So what are you going to do about it?"

Lestrade felt his breath catch. This was not how he'd expected any of this to go. He shook his head.

"Whatever you're trying to do, it isn't going to work. I have no intention of arresting you. Not when our killer is still on the loose. But you need to be more careful."

Sherlock backed away, the glint in his eyes concealed once more. "So do you."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Sorry for the wait! I had a LOT of trouble with this section. . . I'll update again on Wednesday! -GN<em>**


	6. Chapter 1 Part 5: Cigarette Stained Lies

**Speechless**

**Chapter 1.5: Cigarette-stained Lies**

* * *

><p>Lestrade stared at his plate, mind lost in thought rather than engaged in any particular interest in the mess of over-sweetened chicken and rice. How the hell had Sherlock known where the killer would be? Who would have ever made the connection between a song on a DJ's playlist and the death of a blossoming actor? Those two events, connected by such a thin string. . . Lestrade would have overlooked it as a coincidence.<p>

One thing was certain: this had been one of the fastest cases he'd ever worked on, thanks to the lanky man sitting opposite.

Sherlock picked at his food, apparently believing that if he moved it around his plate it would look like he'd actually eaten something. Lestrade coughed.

"You do realize that I had two younger siblings growing up, right? That trick's not going to work on me."

"And here you've proven yourself observant yet again." Sherlock smiled slightly at him, his eyes betraying the slightest pleasure at being caught. "Awfully selective, though. You watch my diet like a hawk, but still can't see clues that are right in front of you."

"I've been meaning to ask," replied Lestrade, who had gotten used to the man's insults, "How did you know it was Ferris? I mean, I understand the bit with the phone. But. . . If he was the killer, why would he give us such a big clue?"

Sherlock chuckled, taking a bite of Chinese. "Perhaps you should ask him that."

"You don't know?"

"Of course I do. But you won't believe it from me."

Lestrade shook his head. "That's not true. I trust you. Lord knows why. But I do."

Sherlock locked eyes with him, staring him down intensely. "You don't know me. Who I am, what I've done. . . And besides, that isn't the point. I understand you, Lestrade. Probably better than you even know yourself. And trust me or not, you would never be satisfied with a second-hand confession. You _need_ to ask him, not because of me, but because of you. Who _you_ are."

He frowned at the younger man, a soft anger burning inside him. "And who am I, then?"

"You're the man with the pretty little wife. The investigator who loves his city more than her. You play by the rules, keep your head down, and avoid conflict at all cost. But that's the surface. Underneath, behind all that pretense and security, that foolhardy faith in justice, you're just like me. And the thing that motivates you,. More than love, more than justice, more than honor. . ."

Sherlock smirked, poking him roughly in the chest with a chopstick. ". . . is truth. You want to know what makes people tick. And you really, really want to know what makes yourself tick. You think that catching criminals and talking to them will give you the answers. And maybe it will. I don't know. But you have to admit this to yourself: you love the chase. Every minute of it. It gives you a thrill so strong that it sickens you sometimes. I saw it in your eyes today."

Lestrade stared at him, unable to think of a reply. Was he right? But how could he be?

"You know what I think, Sherlock?"

"Probably. But tell me anyway."

Lestrade sighed. "I think we stopped talking about me a long time ago."

* * *

><p>The interrogation room was cold and lifeless, the polar opposite of the jocose man across the table from the Detective Inspector. Ferris was, in every way, a radio personality. He was rather on the sweaty side, and not particularly what Lestrade would call attractive were he in the habit of calling men attractive. His watery pea-green eyes were far too small for his fat face, and his squat little pug nose deemed to sink into his cheeks like a melted candle.<p>

"And here's my favorite scene," the man cooed in a mellow, friendly voice. "Where the copper finally confronts the killer, to learn the truth. It's the climax now. I wonder what will happen, hmm?"

"This isn't a play," retorted Lestrade.

"Ah, but it is! As the Bard said, all the world's a stage. We are merely actors, living out the roles we've been assigned. You, the law, the man of justice, screaming into the darkness that there must be a light switch somewhere. Your friend there, waiting in the back room, bearing witness to our dance, the anti-hero trying to find his purpose. And the angel of mercy and fame, who protects the celebritocracy."

"And that would be you?" Lestrade smirks. "You've confessed to murdering three prominent actors. How is that protecting them?"

Ferris laughed, his quadruple chins wobbling with delight. "Ah! Now there's the kicker. You haven't figured it out yet." He stared at the two-way mirror behind them. "He has, though."

Lestrade's eyes hardened. He hated being toyed with. "Tell me. I need to know. How is that protecting them?"

Ferris sighed. "It's simple. Every career has its ups and its downs. But the life of an actor, that tragic existence. . . The best rise quickly. But most fall even more quickly, plunging into obscurity or notoriety, forgotten within a decade. These shattered souls, so delicate, so dependent on the praise of others to sustain their identity. . . It breaks them."

Lestrade narrowed his eyes. "And murder doesn't break them?"

"I take them out when they've reached the height of fame, when people will remember them as a brilliant life cut short rather than a washed-up failure. At the cost of their life - a small price, really - I can give them immortality, a legacy. Don't you see?"

"All I see here is a murderer. No matter who your targets are, murder is wrong."

Ferris beamed at him. "Oh? And what about Croydon?"

Lestrade felt his blood turn to ice. How had he. . .?

"I was there," whispered the man, his voice raspy. "Don't tell me you've forgotten."

"How. . . How could I?" muttered Lestrade under his breath. He tried to stave off the shudder rising in his bones. He had been a young constable at the time, barely old enough to be on the force. . . It was self-defense. They had said so. Wasn't it? He wasn't a murderer. No, the man was just trying to get under his skin.

"Yes," replied Ferris, smiling gently. "I see you understand. I knew you would."

"No." Lestrade's voice sounded alien to him as if he were hearing it from a great distance away. "No, I don't understand. And I never will. I'm not like you, not in any way. And I hope you burn in hell."

"See you there," replied the radio host as he was escorted out of the room.

"Probably," said Lestrade to himself. He bowed over the table, whispering a soft prayer to himself.

_Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in this day of battle. . ._

The shudders slowly subsided. Perhaps he would sleep tonight after all.

* * *

><p>When they arrived back at Lestrade's flat, Sherlock nodded at him awkwardly.<p>

"Well, I should probably get going."

Lestrade frowned at him. "Sherlock, where are you planning on sleeping?"

"Well, my old spot's probably been taken by now. Good location. I'm sure I'll find a place, though. I'm rather good at looking out for myself by now." The last sentence reeked of bitterness.

Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder, feeling it stiffen with the contact. He removed it quickly. It was clear the younger man was unused to being touched in any form of affectionate gesture.

"No, you're bloody terrible at it. I can't let you do that. Come inside."

Sherlock smirked. "What about your wife? I got the feeling she wasn't thrilled about having me here."

"Aster's a good woman. She really is. And I'm sure she'll warm up to you. We have a spare bedroom, and I . . . I'd rather like to see it get used for more than storage. I think she'll agree. I'll call her when we get you settled."

"I don't want your charity, Lestrade. You've done more than enough already. I don't. . . I don't like owing people things."

He huffed angrily at the younger man. "You can't go through life like that, Sherlock. Nobody can. We need other people for the world to make sense, to survive, to be human."

"Then maybe I'm not human." That sadness again.

Lestrade felt a wave of empathy overtake him. Could it be that Sherlock really didn't think he was. . . But the man was incredible, so full of potential.

"Come now. You're human. As human as I am. And you deserve a little kindness."

"But you don't. . ."

"What? Don't know you, what you've done? Sure. But that doesn't matter, does it? Let me help you. Just for a little while."

The man nodded slowly, and let Lestrade lead him to the spare room.

* * *

><p>"It's not much, but it's better than an alley any day," said Lestrade, gesturing to the small room. It was a simple space, with pale blue walls and a small twin bed in one corner. Most of the room was full of half-opened boxes which had been gathering dust for a while.<p>

"I can freshen the sheets if you'd like. I'm afraid no one's -"

Lestrade was cut off by Sherlock's expression as the man turned to face him. His lips were parted slightly, as though he were unable to speak, and his eyes were bright with what could have been tears. At first, Lestrade thought it was gratitude, but then. . .

"I'm so sorry," whispered Sherlock, smiling sadly at him. "I didn't know. Are you sure I can stay here?"

He nodded. "It would be good to see the room get some use."

"What was his name?"

"Duncan." He said the name reverently. It was a name he hadn't spoken in so long that it tasted rusty in his mouth. "It's been almost two years now."

Sherlock nodded, his face quickly resuming equilibrium. "Thank you. I'll stay here for a while. As soon as I can find a place of my own, I'll be out of your way."

Lestrade nodded. "That's fair. I'll let you get settled, then. I'm sure Aster will have words for me."

* * *

><p>"You <em>what!" <em>Aster's voice was harsh and mechanical over the phone. "Greg, I thought you said. . ."

"I know what I said." He sighed, running his hand through his hair. "But Aster, he doesn't have anywhere else to go. And if you took the time to get to know him . . ."

"I don't need to. He's a street person, dear. How do you know he won't just leave with all our money?"

"I trust him. Please, Aster. Won't you just trust me for once?"

She sighed, visibly annoyed. "Is he _really_ that important to you?"

He thought for a moment. What was he doing? Why had he taken Sherlock in? Was it the look of wild desperation in his eyes the night they'd met? Was it penance for the sins of his past? Or was it something else? He wasn't sure. But he did know one thing.

"Yes," he replied. "Absolutely."

"Fine. But if he's going to be here longer than a month, you'll need to start charging him rent. And I'm not going to take care of him. He's your responsibility."

"Thank you," he replied.

Finally, everything was starting to fall into place.


	7. Chapter 2 Part 1: Could We Fix You?

**Speechless**

**Chapter 2.1: Could We Fix You If You Broke?**

* * *

><p><strong>June 5, 2004<strong>

As days turned into weeks, life in the Lestrade household slowly oozed into a comfortable equilibrium. Sherlock seemed to keep to himself most of the time, only coaxed out of his room by Lestrade's frequent reminders to eat and bathe. Besides his stubborn refusal to take care of himself, he was a well-behaved houseguest.

Even Aster seemed to adjust to his presence. Lestrade caught her smiling after the younger man more and more often as time passed.

"What?" she retorted one night as he was unable to suppress a rising chuckle.

"Nothing. It's just. . . You like having him around, don't you?"

She frowned slightly. "Not particularly. He's a bit obnoxious. But all the same. . ."

She sighed, wrapping her arms leisurely about his neck. "I think he's good for you. I don't know exactly, but. . . You seem different. Happier. I haven't seen you like this in a long time, Greg. It's like, for the first time in years, there's that light of hope in your eyes."

She smiled gently, kissing the tip of his nose. "It's nice to see that again."

He laughed, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her towards their bedroom. Aster was right, after all. He really was happy. But there was a lingering fear clinging to the back of his mind like an ancient barnacle, leeching off the joy that grew there. He wasn't sure why, but he had this nagging feeling that soon, the other shoe would drop. And when it did, his beautiful world would be shot to hell again.

He shook his head. No, that was just the cynicism of years of veiled unhappiness talking, trying to ruin what he had. He shouldn't listen to that voice at all. But all the same …

* * *

><p>"Sherlock, where the hell did you get that?" Lestrade pointed in disgust at the skull that was perched on the bedside table of the younger man's room.<p>

"Pinched it from your evidence box. I rather like it." Sherlock smirked at him, his vibrant eyes bright with amusement. "What, you don't like it?"

Lestrade face-palmed, sighing in exasperation. "You can't just steal evidence, Sherlock. I mean, really. What the hell were you thinking?"

"What? The case is closed. Ferris is in prison. You don't really need it any more."

"That's not. . . Why do you even need a skull?"

Sherlock mumbled something under his breath, falling back on his bed with a sigh like a grounded teenager.

"I didn't quite catch that."

"I wanted a friend." The tone of his voice. . . Something wasn't right.

Lestrade sighed, sitting on the bed next to him and staring down into that pale, melancholy face. Sherlock was fighting to suppress his sadness, but he was doing a pretty terrible job of it. That deep-rooted sorrow beamed from his eyes like headlights. Before he quite realized what he was doing, Lestrade reached out and brushed those dark curls off of the younger man's forehead. It was a simple enough gesture, but somehow, it said far more than he even wanted it to.

He shuddered slightly, pulling his hand back. Sherlock caught it in his own, clinging to it like a last bastion of hope, gazing up at Lestrade with desperation.

"Please. Don't."

"Don't what?" his voice was velvet in the silence of the small room.

"Leave."

He smiled gently down at Sherlock, his heart in his throat. What was the young detective so afraid of? Why would he ever leave him? True, he was frustrating to live with. He never cleaned up after himself, seemed to have no concept of social decorum, and frequently broke minor laws that made Lestrade cringe. But those disadvantages were significantly outweighed by the positives.

"Why would I ever do that?" he whispered, doing his best to ease Sherlock's mind.

"Everyone always does, sooner or later. I'm not. . . Good with people. They are so easy to unravel. You and Aster are no exceptions. And before either of you realize, you will either toss me to the street or I will leave on my own before you have the chance. No one really wants me around. I don't. . . I don't have friends, Lestrade. Except for John."

"John?"

Sherlock gestured at the skull.

"You. . . You named the skull. After the dead actor we found with it." Lestrade had to fight to suppress a chuckle. He wasn't sure if this was hilarious or too sick for words.

Sherlock flared up at him in anger. "Look," he snarled, "the only people who won't leave are dead ones. They don't have a choice in the matter."

In a mix of rage and pity, Lestrade hauled the young man off the bed by his housecoat, pulling him into a tight embrace.

"For a genius, you really are so daft," he muttered. "If you don't have friends, what the hell am I?"

He felt Sherlock collapse into his arms, sobbing gently against his shoulder.

"Shh," he whispered. "Oh, come now. Everything's fine. I'm not going anywhere. And you can keep the bloody skull, if it means that much to you."

"It's not about the skull," sobbed Sherlock gently. "I just. . . I sometimes get like this, where nothing makes sense. Like I'm trapped in the darkness of myself. I've done. . . I'm not good at being human."

Lestrade pulled back, holding the man out at arms length and staring point-blank into his bloodshot eyes. "I understand. Better than you know. But it's not all darkness, Sherlock. One of these days, I hope you'll learn to see the light in yourself too. If all you were was darkness, I wouldn't have wanted to look after you.. You're so much better than you've allowed yourself to be. And I know this won't make the sadness go away. But look at me. Really look at me."

Sherlock stared into his eyes, confused.

"You told me once that we were the same. And I think, in a way, you were right. I've done things that torture me, Sherlock. I have the same dark sorrow on my heart. But what separates us is that I fight it. You don't. You let it control you."

"I don't know how to," he whispered, his voice shaking. "It's too strong."

"Let me help you." Lestrade smiled kindly at him. "And you can start by letting me in."

Sherlock shook his head sadly. "I don't. . . I don't want you to."

"Why not?"

"Because you deserve better."

The younger man pried himself away, walking out the door and into the kitchen.

"So do you," whispered Lestrade under his breath, staring idly down at the dusty floor.

* * *

><p><strong>Hooray for the origin of the skull! Part 2 of Chapter 2 will be up Monday!<strong>


	8. Chapter 2 Part 2: Just a Joke

**Speechless**

**Chapter 2.2: Is Your Punch Line Just a Joke?**

* * *

><p><strong>June 14, 2004<strong>

There was a knock on the door, a not unfamiliar occurrence in the Lestrade household. However, when Lestrade opened the door, he was greeted with a very unfamiliar sight indeed. A tall, well-groomed man stood at the opening, wearing a sad sort of smile not unlike the one he had seen so often play across Sherlock's lips. Without waiting for an invitation, the man brushed Lestrade aside and swept into the room like a countess.

"So this is the flat of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of Scotland Yard," he remarked to himself, glancing around the front room. "Funny, thought it would be bigger."

He grimaced at the sight of unwashed breakfast dishes in the sink. "Eh, could be worse, I suppose."

Lestrade frowned at the intrusion. "Who the hell are you, and why are you in my house?"

"Mmm," hummed the man, smirking slightly at him. "Oh, me? Just a concerned citizen. Wondering if you know exactly what kind of man you've got living with you."

"That's none of your business."

"Oh, I believe you'll find that it absolutely is my business. And it should also be yours. Haven't you even bothered to look into his background?"

Lestrade sighed. "The thought had occurred to me, yes. But I trust him. God knows he drives me bonkers sometimes, but he's never given me a reason not to."

"He will." The man frowned at him. "He will, and when he does, you'll throw him out. I'm sure he's told you that everyone does eventually. Well, that's not exactly true. I would have looked after him. But he won't let me. Left my house in the middle of the night two years after he started university. Still will barely talk to me."

Lestrade moved between the man and Sherlock's room.

"Get out."

The man chuckled. "Why, he's already gotten to you, hasn't he? A pity. I was hoping that you'd be able to talk him into coming back home, away from all this darkness he's bound himself in. Or. . ." he paused, eying the frenzied look in Lestrade's eyes. "Oh, I see. You. . . You think. . ." he began laughing outright, throwing his head back in pure amusement.

"Oh, goodness, no! I'm his brother, for God's sake, not some sort of creepy pederast! I would never. . . Oh, that's just too rich! I like you, Lestrade. Perhaps I'll let him keep you after all."

"Keep me?" Lestrade frowned, perplexed and still more than a little miffed with the elder Holmes. "I'm not his pet. I feed him, clothe him, protect him. . ." his eyes widened. "Oh, bloody hell. Perhaps he's mine."

"Hell of a pet you've got." Mycroft's smile faded, his eyes taking on a glow of worried sincerity. "Please, whatever he does, whatever happens. . . Please keep him safe. There's so much about him you don't understand. My brother. . . He's. . . well, he can't help himself sometimes."

He pulled a file from out of his coat, handing it to Lestrade.

"Don't read this yet. You'll know when you need it. But please, whatever happens, don't let him go."

Lestrade sighed, tossing the folder on the counter. "Why in the hell would I ever do that? Why are both of you so obsessed with abandonment?"

Mycroft nodded at the file. "You'll understand someday. Take care, Lestrade."

And in a whoosh of fabric, he was gone.

_Brother. Holmes._ Lestrade frowned slightly as he stripped the years off the man's face.

_Mycroft._

* * *

><p>"Who was that?" muttered Sherlock sleepily, rubbing his eyes as he strode into the kitchen.<p>

"Said he was your brother," replied Lestrade, pouring him a coffee. He frowned in disapproval as the man tipped the sugar jar into the cup. "You're going to rot your teeth out if you keep that up."

"Doubt it." Sherlock didn't even look up. "So you've met Mycroft, then? I'd ask you how he was doing, but I really don't care. Did he offer you money?"

"Um, no? Should he have?"

"Well, that is his usual way of dealing with anyone I'm close to. I'm a bit surprised. Maybe he's finally given up on . . ." He eyed the folder. "What's that?"

Lestrade covered it awkwardly with a placemat. "Oh, nothing. Police stuff. Nothing to be concerned with. Very boring and routine."

Sherlock smirked. "Lucky you're on the right side of the law. You're a terrible liar." He snatched up the folder before Lestrade could stop him.

As he opened it, several sheets of photographic negatives fell from the folder and into Sherlock's coffee. The man didn't seem to notice, being far to preoccupied with the folder's other contents.

"What is it?" asked Lestrade, feeling his jaw clench up in anticipation.

"So you. . . You haven't read it yet."

"No."

"Maybe you should." Sherlock looked up at him, his face calm and collected. But the look in his eyes. . . He was visibly nervous. Lestrade wondered what exactly was in that file that was so damaging to the young man.

Perhaps Sherlock was right. Maybe he'd leapt into this whole thing without doing his research. Perhaps it really would be better to know what the man was running from before he tried to help him get there. That was the smart way to handle this, right?

He reached for the folder, doing his best to ignore the pained look on Sherlock's face as he took it.

But on the other hand. . . He hesitated, his fingers just touching the edge of the folder. Was it really his right to dig up the man's skeletons, whatever they were? Sure, he was the law, and that granted him privileges beyond normal individuals. And if Sherlock really were a danger to society, perhaps he should lock him up on the spot. But all the same, didn't everyone deserve a second chance? The man across the table from him wasn't evil. He could tell that much just by looking at him. So what if he'd made mistakes? Whatever they were, Lestrade couldn't bring himself to believe that Sherlock was incapable of redemption.

In the last few months, he had helped the police capture six deadly killers, the highest win ratio they'd had in years. His brilliance in deduction and what Anderson referred to as "freaky mumbo jumbo" was unparalleled. If anything, the man deserved a medal, not condemnation.

He grabbed the folder.

Sherlock stared at him like a man awaiting execution.

Lestrade shook his head, sighing. "Sherlock, it doesn't matter. What's in this folder. It really doesn't. Yes, your brother gave it to me with the intention that I read it, to understand you better. But I think I understand you perfectly well. Whatever is in here is just smoke, the faded past. You are not defined by it. And I think you, more than anyone else, needs to realize that."

He walked over to the fireplace, tossing it on the fire.

"What are you doing?" cried Sherlock, running towards the fireplace. "What have you done?"

He grabbed for the folder, scorching his hands in the process. As the blackening folder spilled its contents on the fire, Lestrade caught flashes of the man's past. Psychological evaluations. Medical paperwork. Photographs. But all of it, burning, unsalvageable.

He turned to Sherlock, who knelt in front of the fireplace, staring at his blistered hands. He placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder. Sherlock stared up at him, unseeing.

"What have you done." he repeated. But this time, it wasn't even a question.

"I'm sorry. I really thought. . ."

Sherlock smiled sadly. "Well, what's done is done, I suppose. But you really should have read it. I would not have faulted your curiosity."

"It wasn't my place. And I don't want to find out about you that way, Sherlock." He knelt beside him, smiling gently. "If you want me to know anything, all you have to do is tell me. Years on the force means I'm a pretty good listener."

Sherlock sighed. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

Lestrade sighed. He knew he wasn't going to get an easy answer from the man. It wasn't his style. But he truly believed that Sherlock would tell him everything in his own time. In the meantime, however. . .

He cupped Sherlock's hands from underneath, peering at the burn damage.

"Well, it's not too bad. Second-degree burns. I'm sure it's pretty painful."

"I'm fine," muttered Sherlock.

"No, you're not. Come on. I've burn cream somewhere in here. Let's patch you up."

* * *

><p>"There. All done." Lestrade finished wrapping the gauze around Sherlock's hands and sank with a sigh into the old beige couch next to him. It had been a long day, and it wasn't even noon yet.<p>

Sherlock smiled at him gratefully. "Why are you so kind to me?"

Lestrade smirked back. "And should I not be?"

"Kindness is weakness, Lestrade."

He pulled the man around to face him. "No, it's not. Indifference is. Kindness is its own strength, Sherlock. And I'm determined to teach you that, one way or another."

He had never seen that look before. Sherlock's eyes were clear for once, bright with what almost passed for amusement. And yet, something in the way he held his jaw didn't match up. It was as though his features no longer were ruled by the same brain.

"Then teach me," he mumbled. "If you can."

The blood pounded in Lestrade's ears. He tried to speak, but everything that filled his head refused to leave his lips. It was as though, under Sherlock's icy gaze, he was powerless.

He gulped. "Well, I'm doing my best."

"Of course." Sherlock leaned closer, studying the older detective carefully. Lestrade felt himself shudder under the critical gaze. He didn't know what the man was looking for, but he really didn't want him to find it, whatever it was. He had a feeling that it was the key to something incredibly dangerous.

Suddenly, the younger man smiled widely at him, jumping off the couch. "Bored. Let's go for a walk."

Lestrade sighed. Sherlock's mood swings were proving exhausting. Still, he was happy to see him out of his funk, at least for a little while.

"Where shall we go?"

"Oh, anywhere. You choose."

* * *

><p>After spending a good portion of the day at the Victoria Tower Gardens, wandering the green space and people-watching, the pair stopped to rest on a park bench near the Buxton Memorial Fountain, a brightly tiled Gothic affair. Lestrade sighed in contentment, reveling in the warm sun on his face.<p>

"It's a shame more people don't get murdered during the day," quipped Sherlock, smirking at him. "You might have more of a tan."

"Says the vampire," muttered Lestrade. "Are you allergic to the sun, or do you work at being that pale?"

"Vampire? That's a new one." Sherlock sighed. "Never been called that before. So original."

"You're just mad that I called your bluff," he replied, smiling warmly at the younger man. "Perhaps I should start hanging cloves of garlic about the door, hmm?"

Sherlock chuckled. "You did invite me in, Lestrade."

"That's true enough."

Before Sherlock could reply, an older woman walked by with a large purse. She smiled down at them, her green eyes shining in pleasure.

"Oh, how nice! Taking your father for a walk. What a nice young man. I wish my children were so kind."

Lestrade started. "I'm not -"

"He's not -"

They looked at each other. Sherlock smirked evilly, turning back to her. "Yes. Well, he is rather infirm. I thought the fresh air would do him good."

As the lady walked away, Lestrade punched Sherlock in the arm. "I'm going to kill you for that."

"Aww, you wouldn't, would you _dad_?"

"I'm not that old, you bounder!"

They began to laugh, grinning at each other like fools. But soon, Sherlock's face faded back to his customary melancholy.

"I have to ask you something," he said without emotion. "And the answer is important, so I need you to be honest."

"Of course." Lestrade looked at him worriedly. "Whatever it is, I promise."

"Why. . . Why did you take me in? I mean, really, why?"

Lestrade thought about it. He didn't really know the reason. Pity? No. . . well, that was part of it. But it wasn't really why he'd helped him. Desperation? Well, yes, but that wasn't quite it either.

"I don't know. I've been trying to figure that out myself. I guess. . . I guess it was just a thing that needed doing, so I did it."

Sherlock frowned, processing this.

"So you don't really know, then?"

"Should I?"

He smiled sadly at Lestrade, who gulped roughly.

"I suppose not."

They walked back to Lestrade's flat in silence.

* * *

><p>Lestrade awoke abruptly from a troubled sleep and glanced over at his alarm clock. Almost four in the morning. He sighed wiping his eyes and getting out of bed. Not again.<p>

He wandered into the kitchen, searching for his sleeping pills. Maybe an extra one would keep him out all night. Not that he enjoyed the feeling of being drugged. But it was better than the alternative.

As he turned on the light, his eyes were drawn to a torn sheet of paper on the counter with black ink scrawled across it in an uneven hand.

His stomach screwed up in horror as he read the note.

_Thank you. For everything. But I can't stay. I'm sorry._

_-SH_

He bounded down the stairs and onto the street, looking in desperation for the young man. But he could find no trace of him.

"Damn it, Sherlock," he whispered to himself, his eyes filling with tears.

* * *

><p><em><strong>EDITED FOR CONTINUITY WITH THE PREQUELS<strong>_


	9. Chapter 3 Part 1: I'll Never Talk Again

**Speechless**

**Chapter 3.1: I'll Never Talk Again**

* * *

><p>It was over a year before Lestrade would hear whisper of the young man who had vanished in the middle of the night, taking nothing but Lestrade's coat and the skull named John. It was not for lack of trying on his part. He had spent months searching, hounding Missing Persons. . . But to no avail. The man had vanished entirely.<p>

One evening in early 2005, as the filthy slush-snow seeped into his boots, he found himself once more on the trail of a rather interesting killer. In the past few months he'd gained a reputation as the one who requested "the disturbing ones." There were whispers among the other officers that he'd gone off his nut, that he was becoming morbid and obsessed. His superintendent had requested a psych evaluation more than once, but each of them had come back clear. All the same, his circle of friends was rapidly diminishing as people decided that perhaps, for the sake of their careers, they should find more suitable companions.

This pained him more than he cared to admit. After all, before this he had been one of the most respected men on the force. People had admired him, had wanted to see their children grow up like him. His compassion and drive and love for his city had earned him many friends and admirers. Now no one would look him in the eye.

"I'm not disturbed," he muttered into the cold January wind. "I'm not. It's not about the cases."

And this was true. If he'd had it his way, he'd be in his flat with Aster right now, curled up by the fire with a warm cup of tea and a good book, settling back into his normal life. She would rub his shoulders to chase away the cold and the stress of another day protecting his city. And they would laugh together as their daughter moved inside her, reminding him once more of how much he had to gain. How much he stood to lose.

But he could not go back to that life. Not now. The game had changed. And until he found Sherlock, knew that he was alive and safe, he would never be able to enjoy those things. Lestrade could not have warmth when he knew Sherlock was freezing to death. He could not enjoy food while Sherlock was wasting away. And be damned if he could take pleasure in his family while Sherlock was alone.

So he took the gory cases, the puzzling ones, the disturbing ones - so that maybe, if he was very, very lucky, he would catch sight of the lanky man stalking the crime scene, chuckling to himself as the police searched for answers he already knew.

But cases would come and go. Killers would be caught, or never found. Trails would run cold, and the man with shocking blue eyes would never surface.

The man standing next to him turned and smiled sadly at him, pulling his coat tighter around his shoulders. Lestrade nodded gratefully at him. He didn't know what the young forensic analyst was still doing with him, since most of his team had requested a change of assignment. But for some reason, some strange sense of loyalty, perhaps, this one had not left, but had followed him into the worst of it time and again.

"Face it," said Anderson, his eyes full of compassion for his superior, "He's dead. Your madman. We would have seen him by now if he was alive."

"No. He's alive, Anderson. I know it. I can feel it in my bones." Lestrade put a hand on the man's shoulder. "Go home. I'm sure your wife's missing you."

"I could say the same for you, sir."

He smiled at the young man gently. "You're right, of course. But I can't. Not yet."

"Then I won't either."

They walked along in silence, searching for a phantom who would not emerge.

* * *

><p><strong>September 20, 2005<strong>

Near the end of the year, Aster Lestrade found herself completely at the end of her rope. She had an infant daughter who wouldn't stop fussing so long as her father was out of her sight, more housecleaning than she had energy for, bills to pay, a household budget shot to hell, and. . . Him.

It was late, almost one in the morning, and she had finally gotten Grace to sleep. The tiny, fragile child refused to sleep without her father, and in desperation Aster had finally wrapped her in one of Greg's dress shirts. This seemed to comfort her. Aster wished the same trick worked for her.

It was then, as she returned to the kitchen to finally catch up on the cleaning when the front door swung open and Greg deposited himself on the floor.

She ran to him in panic, fearing the worst. But her worry turned to anger when he moaned, lifting himself off the floor and grinning wistfully at her, his deep brown eyes glazed, half-seeing.

"Oh. Hello, Aster. . . Fancy meeting you here."

She glared at him. "And where the hell have you been at this hour? Reeking of alcohol, no less! Fah!"

"Oh, c'mon. Don't be like that. You know, like that. All Lady Frownyface. . ."

"Don't be like what? Look, I've been more than understanding with you. You're worried about that boy. I understand. The late nights at work. The cases that take you further from me every day. I get it. And I've stood by you in all of that. But this? This isn't you, Greg."

"Why a'course it's me! Who else am I?" he mused.

She studied him critically. His clothes were filthy and torn in places, hair was unkempt and greyer than ever. . . There were bags under his eyes large enough to use as a purse, and his five-o-clock shadow was beginning to resemble a seven-o-clock shadow. She shook her head in resignation.

"I don't know. But you have a week to figure yourself out or Grace and I are gone. I won't live with a drunkard and a slob."

He stared at her as the information seeped into his alcohol-saturated brain. Then his eyes grew wide in shock. He curled into a ball and began to sob.

"I. . . I. . . I just don't know what to do any more! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry. . ."

"Shh now." She wrapped herself around him, grimacing to herself as she felt the dampness of his shirt. "Shhh. . . It's ok. I'm here."

He clung to her, sobbing into her shoulder until his tears were spent and he collapsed in her arms, sound asleep.

After she managed to drag him into their bedroom, she collapsed by the bed, praying softly.

_God, if you're out there, if you even care at all, please, help my husband. I can't do this by myself._

"I can't. . ." She shook with emotion, trying not to cry herself. The aftermath of that man's presence in their lives was killing them. And she couldn't see any way out.

_Please, help us all._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Ok, before you panic, SHERLOCK WILL BE BACK in the next upload, which will be Monday. And I really want to do more with Drunk Lestrade someday, but it didn't fit the mood so I'm saving it for a later chapter. Reviews as always are appreciated.<strong>_

_**(Oh, yes, and Grace is going to be pretty damn important someday.)**  
><em>


	10. Chapter 3 Part 2: Left Me Speechless

**Speechless**

**Chapter 3.2: You've Left Me Speechless**

* * *

><p><strong>September 29, 2005<strong>

The trail - as happened all too often these days - had run cold. This most recent case, a brutal double homicide in what was supposed to be a quiet middle-class neighborhood, had yielded no leads. And as more time went by, it became increasingly unlikely that they would ever catch the person responsible.

Lestrade rubbed his eyes wearily. This was going nowhere.

"Anderson, please tell me you've got something. Anything. I don't care if it's a discarded toothpick. Just. . . "

The analyst smiled compassionately at him, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, sir. But it's a dead end. I've got nothing. No prints, not even a hair that didn't belong there."

"Great." He sighed, rifling through the papers on his desk and haphazardly putting them into files. "So do you want to tell the press how badly we've failed, or should I? I should, shouldn't I? It is my job, after all. Though God knows for how long."

Anderson patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. "You're doing the best you can, sir. No one can fault you for that."

"Yes they can, and you know it. The media doesn't understand. All they see are crimes and bad men on the loose, and us powerless to protect the people."

"And what makes you so sure it was a man?"

The deep, playful voice made them both jump.

Lestrade turned towards the door, shock radiating across his face like cracks on a frozen lake.

"You. . ."

Sherlock stepped into the room, smirking slightly at this reception. His look had changed greatly since the last time Lestrade had seen him. His hair, once long and matted, was cropped closer to his head, his curls framing his face almost elegantly. His wardrobe, too, had significantly improved. He was sporting a black blazer over a grey button-up that actually seemed to fit his frame - though Lestrade noted with some amusement that he still wore the coat. _His_ coat.

"Hello, Lestrade."

Anderson frowned slightly. "Well, now. This is a surprise. What, finally decided to show up?" His eyes shot daggers into Sherlock.

"I was a bit busy cleaning up after you fools," retorted Sherlock.

"Well, that's nice," shot back Lestrade bitterly. "You vanish into thin air, and then insult me and my team. Lovely."

"I can't help it that you're all inept." Sherlock ran his finger along the edge of Lestrade's desk, frowning at the dust. "And filthy. But that's not why I'm here. I need everything you have on the Williams case."

Lestrade sighed. "Anderson, could you give us a minute?"

Anderson shrugged, clearly not comfortable with the idea of leaving his superior alone with the mysterious and sardonic madman. Lestrade shot him a reassuring smile, nodding slightly. He sighed and left the room, closing the door behind him.

"Ah!" exclaimed Sherlock happily. "That's better. There's something about that man that just grates me." He slithered into the chair next to Lestrade's desk, smiling slightly at him. "Do you have any tea?"

Lestrade threw himself at the man with considerable speed, hauling him up by the collar. Sherlock squeaked slightly in protest but did not attempt to fight back.

"I'll take that as a no? That's alright."

Before he knew what was happening, Lestrade had the younger man pinned against a filing cabinet. His entire body was shaking in rage and frustration.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, coming here, you bastard! And why the hell should I help you?"

Sherlock smirked, placing his hand over Lestrade's. His long, bony fingers wiggled dexterously under the older man's hand, loosening his grip on his collar.

"Well, I'd thought you might like some assistance, seeing as you've failed so royally without me. But if you don't, I'll just let myself out."

Lestrade sighed, willing himself to calm down. He let go of Sherlock, who slumped breathlessly against the metal cabinet.

"Sherlock, you can't . . ." He walked to the windows, trying to gather his thoughts. Outside, evening was beginning to fall.

"You can't just show up again and pretend nothing happened," he said blankly to the glass. "You've been missing for over a year."

"I haven't been missing. Stop being so dramatic. You just couldn't find me."

Lestrade turned, staring at him with bewilderment. The look in the younger man's eyes said _because I didn't want to be found. _He turned away again.

"So this is how it's going to be? You vanishing when I need you the most, showing up at my office without a word, and expecting me to just go along with it?"

Sherlock sighed, stalking over to Lestrade.

"Lestrade. Look at me."

He turned, his eyes full of betrayal and disappointment. "I guess I should have expected as much. But I thought that maybe, just maybe, you'd trust me enough to stay."

Sherlock frowned at him, staring deeply into his eyes as he had that day in the flat. Searching. Examining.

"Can't you see that this is. . ." He sighed, his blue eyes softening slightly. "I told you that you deserved better, didn't I? Why on Earth didn't you just let me go?"

"I. . ." Lestrade gulped, backing away. "I couldn't."

"I see that. Look at you. Almost as skinny as I am. You haven't been eating or sleeping, have you? And before you protest, alcohol isn't a food. You'd think after all the lectures you gave me, you'd take better care of yourself. And your family."

"And what would you know about it?" Lestrade spat the words at him, his voice filled with bile. "You ran away in the middle of the night, for God's sake!"

"I was trying to protect you!" bellowed Sherlock. It was the first time Lestrade had ever seen the man lose his composure like this, and it chilled him to the core. His eyes were flaming ice, teeth and voice like daggers to the soul. If the devil had a face at that moment, it would have been the face of Sherlock Holmes.

Lestrade tried to get away from him, but the man threw a right cross to his face before he could escape, sending him to the floor.

As he stared up in shock and pain, Sherlock leapt on top of him, pinning him to the ground with the full weight of his body. Normally, Lestrade would have been more than a match for him, but he had lost too much muscle during the past year of melancholia and was powerless.

Sherlock bent down, his face inches from Lestrade's. When he spoke, his words were chosen carefully.

"I thought you would be better off without me. I wanted you. . . To be safe."

"And assaulting me is your preferred method?" Lestrade gasped, glaring at the younger man. "I was going to say you were full of it, but maybe I was safer with you gone."

"Trust me, you were."

Lestrade's eyes softened, and he smiled sadly at his assailant. "I do. Trust you. Now get off me before -"

"Is everything alright?" called Anderson furtively, opening the door. "I thought I heard -"

His eyes widened at the scene in front of him. Without asking for an explanation, he pulled a stapler off of the desk and aimed it at Sherlock's head. It slammed into the back of the man's head, but his curls seemed to repel most of the damage.

"Get away from him, you. . . You psychopath!" he screamed, reaching for a rather pointy paperweight pyramid.

Lestrade sighed. "Stand down, Anderson. This man's in my custody until further notice."

"Sir, I hate to question an order, but it seems he has you in his custody currently. Can I please. . .?"

"No. Stand down. Sherlock, get the hell off of me before he brains you. If you don't mind, I'd rather not like to deal with the paperwork."

Sherlock smirked at him, climbing to his feet and offering the man a hand up. "I wouldn't want to inconvenience your caretaker. Not that anyone's been in recently."

Anderson stared at them, putting his makeshift weapon away with more than a little hesitation.

"Now then, as I was saying before, your killer's a woman. Probably a relative. I'll be happy to help you with this, but I'm going to need a few things."

"Such as?"

Sherlock smiled. "Well, let's start with dinner, shall we? I'm a bit peckish, and you could clearly stand a good meal."

He smirked at Anderson. "Don't worry. I'll have him home by eleven."

Lestrade gulped. He wasn't sure he liked the sound of this. And what would Aster say?

* * *

><p><strong>Now fixed due to my neglect of the fact that British police don't have guns. Clearly I've been watching too much American TV lately. . . and Torchwood. Thank you to luckypixi for reminding me of that!<strong>_  
><em>


	11. Chapter 4 Part 1: Half Wired Broken Jaw

**Speechless**

**Chapter 4.1: Half-Wired Broken Jaw**

* * *

><p><strong>September 29, 2006<strong>

As they sat in a small café near Lestrade's flat, the two men said very little to each other. Sherlock wasn't particularly verbose to begin with. Lestrade just didn't know where to begin.

Over a year since they'd last seen each other, and the younger man had changed so much. Clearly, someone had been taking care of him. They had to have been, for him to be so groomed. Lestrade knew from personal experience that Sherlock wasn't exactly fastidious unless he had a reason to be. Hell, the man wasn't anything unless he needed to be. There was not an ounce of spontaneity in him. Every movement, every word was calculated.

He thought back to the office that morning, and rubbed his jaw, wincing. There would be a bruise, for sure. Aster would blame another pub brawl. She'd retreat further from him. He sighed. Whatever Sherlock needed, he was willing to assault a police inspector to get it. Willing to say. . .

I was trying to protect you.

He wondered what the lanky man had meant by that. Clearly, if he meant keeping Lestrade happy and safe, his plan had tremendously backfired. His departure had nearly destroyed the man. And yet. . .

Sherlock looked at him cautiously, and Lestrade could see that all too familiar wave of sorrow and. . . Yes. That was it. Loathing. Self-loathing that ran so deeply that it burned the soul.

"What are you looking at?" muttered Sherlock, playing idly with his coffee spoon.

Lestrade shook his head. "Nothing. Sorry. Anyways, about this case. . ."

"Yes, the case." Sherlock smirked at him. "I'll be handling this one."

"Yes, well," spattered Lestrade awkwardly, "you can't just. . . I mean, no, it's my case too."

"And a bang-up job you've done with it so far. But no, I'm going to need your files."

"That's not exactly -"

"What? Going to threaten me with arrest again? I know it's not regulation. But you want this woman caught, yes? Then you need me. And I'm being nice enough to let you take the credit again. So perhaps you should stop sulking and let's get to work, hmm?"

"You son of a bitch." Lestrade glared at the man. "Why must you always be so difficult? Don't insult me by deigning me worthy of your leftovers. Not after what you've done."

Sherlock stared at him, clearly a touch shocked by this outburst. Frankly, Lestrade was a little shocked by it himself.

"Where the hell were you when the Smith children were slaughtered in their sleep? Or when Tracy Hapshire was beaten to death in an alley. What was so important then? People suffer and die and go unavenged. And I can only do so much. I am only one man, for God's sake!"

"I'm not God." replied Sherlock, looking at him enigmatically. "And I'm no one's saviour. I can't magically fix everything. People die. Other people kill them. I am not an officer of the law like you are, Lestrade. And people, frankly, aren't that important."

"How can you say that? How can you look me in the eye and say that?"

"Because it's the truth. You just don't want to face it because you care too much about other people. I care for no one. It's easier that way. Less distracting."

Sherlock's words seemed to punch right through Lestrade. He caught himself on the table edge, gasping slightly.

"That's. . . that's no way to live, Sherlock. And you know it."

The younger man stood up, nodded apologetically at Lestrade, and stalked away into the fading light of the West-bound sun.

"I don't know any other way."

* * *

><p>Aster Lestrade looked up as her husband opened the door and walked into the kitchen. It was clear from the expression on her face that she was surprised to see him home so early.<p>

"Not out drinking again, then?"

He smiled apologetically at her. "God, I'm sorry, Aster. For everything I've put you and Grace through. You deserve so much better from me, and I haven't been. . . I've been a bloody terrible husband."

She sighed, walking over to him and wrapping her arms around him. "Yes, you have been."

He said nothing in reply, just stood there holding her, breathing deeply into her long, dark hair. After all, nothing really could be said.

She kissed his cheek gently, caressing his jaw with one hand. He winced at the contact, turning his sorrowful brown eyes down to meet her green ones. She smiled back, her eyes misting slightly.

"What was it that brought you back to me? Not that I'm complaining."

He inhaled harshly at the question. Should he tell her about his day, about Sherlock emasculating him again, about the punch and the insults and the. . . Oh, what was the use? He was home.

"I was on the fast track to becoming Sherlock Holmes," he replied finally. "And I realized something today. That is one hell of a lonely existence."

He kissed her gently on the lips.

"Why would I ever want that when I could be here with you?"

She smiled warmly up at him, her cheeks flushed slightly.

"So he's back then."

He nodded.

She sighed, a year's worth of frustration subsiding, evaporating into the falling dusk. "Good. He's good for you, Greg."

He stared at her in confusion. After everything they'd gone through since that man faceplanted into their lives, how could she say something like that? How could she say something like that and _mean_ it?

"But Aster, he's been nothing but problems since the day I met him!"

She beamed at him. "Aw, but you don't mean that. You're different when he's around, Greg. There's just something. . . It's like you live your life by torchlight and he's a bloody lamp."

"Enough with the him being so damned intelligent!" He pulled away from her. "I've had it up to here with it! He makes me feel so bloody stupid!"

She giggled. "That's not what I meant. But I have to say, this is the most animated I've seen you in months."

He sighed. "Yes, well, I don't like it."

She ruffled his hair affectionately. "You aren't stupid, Greg. Lord knows you're one of the brightest men I know. That's one of the reasons why I married you."

She smirked. "That and how funny you are when you're annoyed."

He growled, his eyes flashing dangerously as he stalked towards her. "The devil take you, woman."

"If he's masquerading as a particularly sexy detective inspector, he's more than welcome to," she mumbled huskily, shrieking as he swept her off the floor and carried her off over his shoulder.

* * *

><p>"Meh. What is it, Aster?" moaned Lestrade as he was shaken awake.<p>

"Hmm?" she mumbled in her sleep, rolling over beside him.

He threw himself at the intruder who hovered over their bed, tackling them to the floor. The figure hissed in pain, shuddering beneath the weight of the adrenaline-fueled man.

"Ah!" gasped a familiar voice. "Maybe this was a bad time."

Lestrade stared down at the man. "Sherlock? What the devil. . ."

"You really need better locks. Now will you let me up? I need your help."

He nodded, easing off the younger man, who groaned in pain, easing himself off the floor.

"I'll meet you in the kitchen. Do put some pants on before you join me."

Lestrade looked down, blushing slightly. Ah, yes. Pants.

* * *

><p>"What in the name of all that is holy happened to you!" exclaimed Lestrade as he turned on the kitchen light.<p>

Sherlock smiled slightly through what must have been his mouth, though it was hard to tell judging by all the bruising and swelling. His face seemed to have been put through a meat tenderizer.

"I met your killer," he replied simply. "She wasn't happy to be found."

"I'd imagine not. What did she do, try to feed you to a concrete wall?"

"Something like that." He winced as he tried to sit up.

Lestrade ran to him, gingerly unbuttoning his shirt. "Let me see."

Sherlock didn't protest. Lestrade had to hold back a cry of dismay as he looked at the man's torso. If the face had been bad. . . The man's ribs seemed to have been realigned to resemble a game of pick-up-sticks.

"How did you even manage to get here like that?" he said quizzically.

"I walked."

"We need to get you to a hospital." Lestrade turned to grab the phone.

Sherlock grabbed his arm. "No time. Call your crew first, see if they can find her. Medium build, early middle age. Very wavy hair. And angry as all hell."

"Name?"

Sherlock shook his head. "That's all I got."

Lestrade made his call as succinctly as he could. But even so, Sherlock was fading fast. The man kept staring at the door, as if waiting for Death to walk in and drag him away.

"Come on. I'm taking you to the hospital whether you want to go or not."

"Fine. . . But. . . No ambulance. . . You drive."

Lestrade sighed. There was no way he was going to get him there in time without medical support. But all the same, Sherlock had managed to walk this far. . . Perhaps the man's pigheadedness was just enough to keep him alive.

"Fine. Let's go."


	12. Chapter 4 Part 2: Popped My Heartstrings

**Speechless**

**Chapter 4.1: You Popped My Heartstrings**

* * *

><p><strong>September 30, 2006<strong>

The smell of cleaning agents and the incessant flickering of the artificial lights were starting to get to Lestrade. As he sat in the waiting room, staring absently at three-month old periodical about vintage motorbikes, he did his best to keep his mind empty. It wasn't easy.

Years of police training should have made it easier for him to blot what had happened from his mind, the sheer violence of it all. He had seen men far more broken than this, women and children as well. He'd witnessed horrible acts of cruelty and depravity. And while it touched him to the core every time, he was generally able to maintain his composure.

It seemed he'd never been able to as far as Sherlock was concerned.

His mind kept flashing back to the night previous, how Sherlock had returned to him a pile of broken bones and bruises. And why? He had been trying to help, trying to find the killer in the Williams case, trying to. . .

He exhaled rapidly through his nose, a silent whimper caught in his throat.

Somehow, he felt responsible for the condition the young detective was in. If only he'd gone with him, been watching out for him better. . . If only. . .

But there really was nothing he could have done. Sherlock had made it quite clear where Lestrade fit into his life. To the taller man, he was an information feed and taxi service at best. At worst, he was incompetent and in the way. Sherlock didn't need him. He never had wanted him. That was ludicrous. It was like the north wind wanting help from a swallow. Lestrade was just a man, after all. Sherlock was a force of nature.

The advertisement on the open page of the periodical caught his attention. "Norton: The Unapproachable." He stared at the words, not fully comprehending them. But it seemed to him that perhaps this too was Sherlock. A fancy, expensive, beautiful machine, fast and flashy. But then, here it was in need of repair, maintenance, and no one made parts that fit it any more. Just as no one built motorcycles the way Norton had, no one made men like Sherlock any more. If they ever did.

Lestrade shook his head. Now he was just getting ridiculous. Clearly, he needed a nap. But he couldn't close his eyes, no matter how hard he tried.

"Damn it, Sherlock," he whispered to himself. "What the devil have you done to me?"

As if on cue, a young nurse walked in, approaching him cautiously She couldn't have been very old, as the innocence and vigor of joining a helping profession hadn't yet been eroded by the grim reality of death.

"Mr. Lestrade?"

He nodded. "Detective Inspector, if you please."

"Oh." She blushed slightly. "Sorry, I didn't realize -"

He smiled warmly. "No, no. It's quite alright, my dear. I'm in plainclothes, after all."

That was the truth. He was still in his flannel pajama bottoms, his coat hastily thrown over a white t-shirt stained with Sherlock's blood. He must have looked a sight.

"You. . . you wanted to tell me something?"

His heart was in his throat. Judging by the way she smiled at him, that look of compassion, of pity. . .

_Oh God, no._

Sherlock was dead. Dead or in a coma. Dead or in a coma or permanently crippled. He gulped, trying not to panic. Whatever she was going to say. . .

"Well?"

She nodded gently. When she spoke, she seemed to be picking her words very carefully. "Your. . . friend. He's awake. Asking for you."

A massive grin spread across Lestrade's face, and he did his best not to leap up too hastily.

"Thank you. Um. . . Could you take me to him?"

She nodded, leading him to a small room on the other side of the wing. As he crossed the threshold, she turned away, sighing.

"Why is it always the handsome ones?"

Lestrade paused for a second, wondering what that was about. But he decided it wasn't important.

* * *

><p>Lestrade couldn't recall his legs moving, but they must have, as he was suddenly beside Sherlock's hospital bed. The man looked thinner and paler than ever, but he greeted the detective inspector with one of his signature smirks.<p>

"Took you long enough. Leg fall asleep?"

Lestrade sighed. Good old Sherlock, blunt as ever. "No, they just fetched me. I do have to say, I'm surprised they let me in here. You should be resting.

"You're police. You go where you want."

Lestrade chuckled bitterly. "Hardly. It's amazing how little one's badge does these days. So I have to ask, how did you. . .?"

"I pulled some strings. It's not important. What is important is that I'm on the mend now. We can get back to work."

"Like hell we can. You need to recover. They said you'd broken four ribs, cracked your radius. . . I'm still amazed you were able to walk to my flat in that condition. No. You're staying right here until your doctor says you can move."

"I couldn't have said it better myself," crooned a soft female voice. Lestrade turned to the door to see a young woman with a clipboard. Her sandy brown hair was pulled up into a loose ponytail that suggested professionalism, but her blue eyes were playful and kind.

"And you are?" asked Lestrade, wondering just how many attractive young women worked at the hospital.

"Sarah Sawyer. I'm a resident here, and I'm helping Dr. Walters with some of his patients." She smiled sweetly at Lestrade. "I have to say, Mr. Lestrade, that your husband is quite a handful."

He felt his face begin to go red, then slightly purple. "My. . . My husband?"

The realization of what must have happened sunk in. "Oh, yes. Well, he can be. Isn't that right, dear?"

Sherlock glared at him. "Hey, at least I don't snore. They could use recordings of you sleeping to frighten schoolchildren."

He gasped. "Oh. Bringing that up in front of strangers. How could you do this to me? You're not the man I married!" Well, at least that part was true.

Sarah smiled, clearly amused by their banter. "Well, it looks like he'll make a full recovery, provided he stays in bed for at least two weeks."

"Two weeks?" they exclaimed simultaneously.

She nodded. "Oh, and that means resting. No. . . well, you know. . ." she blushed deeply.

Lestrade coughed. "I can assure you, that won't be a problem."

She nodded, leaving the room a bit too quickly for comfort. Once she was gone, Lestrade turned on Sherlock.

"You pulled a few strings? This is what you call pulling a few strings?"

Sherlock snorted. "Well, I figured you'd be quicker on the uptake. And you really don't look a stitch like my brother. What, should I have gone with father again?"

"It might have made me look just a little less foolish, yes!"

Sherlock's grin faded, his eyes taking on a hint of pain. "You really think. . . That would be foolish?"

Lestrade gulped. What the hell was he playing at?

"Well, Sherlock, you do remember my _wife, _don't you? What if they check the records?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, wincing as the movement disturbed healing bruises. "Idiot. This is a hospital, not a bloody jail. Though it rather feels the same from my end. Two weeks?"

"Well, you did damage yourself pretty badly this time."

Sherlock nodded slightly. "No, your killer did. But I suppose that's a valid point. I just. . ."

"What?"

Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes pleading. "I hate doctors. Please don't leave me alone here."

Lestrade sighed. He wasn't sure when Sherlock had figured out the effectiveness of that haunted look. And he knew full well that the younger man was playing him. But still. . .

"Let me just call home, alright?"

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry for the wait! I had a rather full week last week. Update again on Weds.<strong>


	13. Chapter 4 Part 3: All My Bubble Dreams

**Speechless**

**Chapter 4.3: All My Bubble Dreams**

* * *

><p><strong>October 20, 2006<strong>

Almost a month had passed since the day in the hospital, but the strange tension which had been building between the Detective Inspector and the young detective had only continued to mount. True to his word, Lestrade had spent nearly all his free time attending to Sherlock whilst he was confined to bed, bringing him case files to look over and talking about the world outside his sterile hospital bedroom.

By the time he was released, Sherlock was so weak that the nurses insisted on giving him a walker. He resisted in true Sherlockian fashion, until Lestrade had told him quite plainly that were he not to accept the walker he would be confined instead to a wheelchair. The angry glare in his eyes said enough: _I can take care of myself._

Lestrade had smiled at this. If the young man really was so independent-minded, he should probably stop getting himself nearly killed.

Still, he tried to respect Sherlock's wishes. When he refused to stay at the flat, Lestrade helped him settle into a nasty little ground-floor one-room of his own. It may have only been a half-step up from the street, but it was still progress. That, and it was about all the Detective Inspector could afford while still retaining his own rent. After all, Sherlock didn't really have an income.

This lack of employment, in fact, was what brought an unusually tired Lestrade to the man's door this particular afternoon. He knocked cautiously, knowing full well that Sherlock had already spied him from the street.

"It's open, Lestrade," muttered the growl-droned voice from inside.

He smiled to himself, shaking his head. He knew the man had little to steal, but all the same.

"I brought you some -" he was cut off in mid sentence as he stared in shock at the scene before him. "What in God's name…?"

Sherlock was crouching on the floor, buck naked. In front of him were five or six jam jars full of a dark substance Lestrade really really hoped was not blood, though the paler-than-normal complexion of the younger man made him suspect that it was. He had apparently been finger-painting with it on the walls, as strange rust-colored pictographs were splattered about haphazardly.

"Terribly sorry about your security deposit," crooned Sherlock, walking to the sink to wash his hands, "but I'm afraid this is a very important experiment."

Lestrade stood in the doorway in stunned silence, his stare only matched by that of the skull named John which grinned down at him from a tall, third-hand shelf on the opposing wall.

Sherlock turned, smirking at him slightly. "Problem?"

Lestrade turned his glare on him, pointedly focusing on his eyes. "Hell yes there's a problem! We were supposed to meet up two hours ago to go over the Donaldson case with Anderson, and not only don't you show up, but you're here getting up to naked satanic mischief!"

Sherlock's eyes hardened at the mention of Anderson, but he chuckled slightly at Lestrade's assessment of his experiment.

"Neo-Gnostic, my dear Lestrade."

"What?"

"Naked neo-Gnostic mischief. Not Satanic. You can tell by the use of Greek. Though I don't suppose you understand Greek, do you?"

Lestrade ignored this blatant sting. "Still, what's it doing on the walls, you pretentious bastard?"

Sherlock smirked. "You really need to look over your own crime scene photos. I've recreated the exact scene of the Donaldson homicide. Well, minus the bodies, but I'm still banned from the mortuary. I was experimenting to see how long the blood had been outside the bodies of the victims before it was applied to the walls."

"And you couldn't use pig's blood or something." Lestrade didn't even bother to put that in the form of a question.

Sherlock shrugged. "Wrong consistency. Anyways, I discovered something interesting. It seems that the blood was at least five hours old before it was applied."

Lestrade stared at him in shock. "But the victims had only been dead for -"

"Three hours." Sherlock beamed at him triumphantly. "I know! Amazing, isn't it? Oh, it's like Christmas!"

"One more question." Lestrade looked at him quizzically.

"Let me guess. Why would someone do this? How did I figure it out? Why didn't you think of it first?"

Lestrade sighed in exasperation, trying not to look at the younger man's body. "No. Why the hell are you naked?"

Sherlock looked down. "Oh, yes. That. I didn't want to get blood on my clothes."

"Oh." Lestrade turned away. "Well, if you're quite finished, we should head to the station. And please put some bloody clothes on, if you don't mind."

"Am I embarrassing you?"

"No. I mean. . . yes. A little."

"Why?" Sherlock stared at him, genuine curiosity flickering in his eyes. "It's not like you've never seen me naked before."

Lestrade could feel his cheeks flushing. "Yes. Well, that was different."

"Why? Because I wasn't conscious?" He stalked closer to the older man, smirking even more now.

Lestrade whimpered to himself, trying to figure out what the hell the younger detective was playing at. Whatever his game, Lestrade didn't like where this was going. He needed to regain control of the situation before. . .

"Get dressed, Sherlock. We have a lot of work to do."

He stepped even closer, now less than a foot away. His voice, when it came, was a husky whisper.

"And if I refuse? What will you do?"

Lestrade coughed, his face now somewhere in the burgundy palate. This was not going to end well. He hissed angrily.

"Will you stop already? Heaven's sake, man! Fine. If you don't want to come with me, that's fine. But I'm leaving. I'll see you when you grow up, if that ever happens."

He yanked open the door and fled into the street, breathing heavily as he closed the door behind him.

"What the hell was that about?" he mused to himself, trying to calm the tremors in his legs.

* * *

><p><em>Lestrade awoke abruptly to the sound of muffled sobs coming from Grace's room. He got out of bed abruptly, walking swiftly to her crib.<em>

_But it wasn't his daughter crying. No, it was Sherlock. He was lying on the bed as he had been over a year earlier, his eyes red and sore from weeping. Lestrade thought it a bit odd that Grace was nowhere to be found, and yet didn't question it enough to ask._

"_What's wrong, Sherlock?"_

_The young man looked at him, but didn't seem to entirely see him. "Where did you go, Greg?"_

_It was the first time Lestrade had ever heard the younger man use his full name, and he felt his spine tingle at how it sounded in Sherlock's resonant timbre. And yet, the words themselves brought nothing but confusion._

"_What do you mean? I'm right here."_

"_No. No you aren't. You left me. You left me all alone. You promised you wouldn't. Why did you lie to me?"_

_Lestrade moved to his side, more perplexed than ever. "But I'm right here."_

"_Prove it." Sherlock's eyes seemed to focus on him for the first time, sea-blue and full of unbelievable sorrow so bright it was blinding. Without a second thought, Lestrade pulled the younger man close, kissing him gently, chastely on the forehead._

"_Believe me now?"_

_Sherlock shook his head slightly. "You made your choice. And I lost."_

"_What? When? What choice?"_

_The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched, but he could not quite manage a smile. "A long time ago. And not yet. But it doesn't matter. I suppose nothing I could do would change your mind."_

"_What do you mean? You aren't explaining anything!"_

"_I am. You just aren't listening."_

_Lestrade pulled back, ready to leave the room, but Sherlock grabbed him by the wrists and pulled him into a kiss._

_He protested at first, desperate to get away, to make sense of this situation. But as their lips lingered, he felt himself slide into a different kind of desperation. He pushed Sherlock to the bed and locked his wrists above his head,, assaulting his mouth furiously._

_As he pulled back for air, Sherlock gasped in contentment, arching his back under the older man like a cat._

"_My my. What would your wife say? I suppose you'd better wake up now before we both get in trouble."_

"_What?"_

_But the dream had already faded._

* * *

><p>"Good morning, sleepyhead," crooned Aster, ruffling Lestrade's hair as she set his breakfast in front of him.<p>

He moaned, holding on to his coffee mug for dear life. Whatever the hell he'd experienced last night, he was mentally and physically exhausted.

"That bad, huh?" She smiled down at him, green eyes bright with concern. "You were crying out in your sleep last night. Case troubles?"

He nodded. She didn't even know the half of it.

* * *

><p><strong>I hate to do this to all of you, but SPEECHLESS will be on hold until December due to NaNoWriMo.<strong>


	14. Chapter 4 Part 4: He's Gonna Get You

**Speechless**

**Chapter 4.4: He's Gonna Get You**

* * *

><p><strong>October 31, 2006<strong>

Lestrade hated Halloween with a passion he typically reserved only for poorly-made coffee and people who talked on their mobiles in queues. It wasn't merely that crime seemed to escalate on that night of mischief. No, he hated the holiday even as a child for the simple reason that he disliked masks. When people wore them, it became harder to see into their eyes, to see who they really were, and that made him severely uncomfortable.

Of course, there were all sorts of masks, and the one that he himself had been wearing for the past few weeks was substantially more dangerous than any latex number sported by a coworker at a party.

His subconscious was dogging him like a shrike, offering him little rest from the confusion Sherlock's presence in his life generated. He often rued the day he had pulled the addict from the streets and into his life. Things were so much less complicated without him around. The job, the wife, the city. . . These had been Lestrade's only concerns. But now, everything was falling to bits inside his brain, and it was all he could do to keep composed.

He had thought he'd been doing a pretty decent job of it too, until he heard a knock on his office door.

"Come in," he muttered, rubbing the weariness from his eyes. He had not been sleeping. The dreams were getting worse.

Anderson peered around the edge of the door, glancing about cautiously before stepping into the room and closing the door gently behind himself. He smiled apologetically at his superior.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you, Detective Inspector."

He smiled at his faithful foresnsics officer. "Hardly, Anderson. What can I do for you?"

Anderson gulped quietly, moving to a chair by Lestrade's desk. "Well, sir, I wanted to. . . That is to say, I need to ask you something."

Lestrade frowned, puzzled. "Yes?"

"I. . . I was wondering, if it wasn't too much to ask. . . Could you maybe stop working with Sherlock Holmes? Just for a while."

It was Lestrade's turn to gulp. "And why would I do that, Anderson? Listen, I know you don't always get along but he's been very useful -"

Anderson leapt to his feet, eyes burning. He clenched his fists tight enough to make his knuckles white.

"I know he's bloody useful! Oh yes, he could replace all of us and no one would be the wiser, would they? He's the motherfucking Batman of London, king of deduction."

Lestrade glared at him. "Enough."

"No."

"No?"

Anderson's nostrils flared angrily. "No, it's not enough. I hate that man."

Lestrade's eyes were dangerous. "I said enough, Anderson. Keep talking like that and you're looking at a transfer. I won't abide jealousy on my team."

"But he's not your team! I'm your team! And I'm not jealous!" Anderson rolled his yes. "God knows I couldn't be jealous of him. I wouldn't want to be him for all the tea in China!"

"Then what? Because I'm not going to sever ties with someone just because you don't like him. Give me a good reason, and perhaps I'll consider it. But until then, you have other things to do. Good day."

Anderson started to protest, but the look in Lestrade's eyes told him he'd better not. He nodded slightly, heading out into the outer office defeated.

* * *

><p>As Anderson walked back to his lab, he fought back tears. It was simply unfair, the way Lestrade had treated him. Pushing aside his concern and dislike for that insufferable and shady Holmes character just because. . .<p>

What did he expect him to do, present a speech? Anderson wasn't a wordsmith. He was a bloody scientist, for God's sake! So what if he couldn't present a strong argument? Shouldn't his boss listen to him anyway?

He had stayed by the man's side through the worst of it, when everyone else had abandoned him - not because he wanted to find Sherlock but because Lestrade had needed him. And he still did, even if he refused to see it. His faithfulness was not conditional. Lestrade had never saved him from anything. But the respect he commanded by his love of his job and the people he was fighting to protect. . . That was what tied Anderson to him.

But the man was falling apart at the seams. That was plain enough to see. Something had unhinged him, and Anderson knew in his gut that that something was Sherlock. The man was no longer a help. He was a menace.

"I'm not jealous of him," he muttered to himself. "Not hardly. I hate him. But I hate him because of what he's doing to you."

He stared off into space, ignoring the paperwork in front of him.

"I only hope you see reason soon, my friend."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thank you so much for your patience! I'll be posting regularly again, so stay tuned!<strong>


	15. Chpater 4 Part 5: No Love Left To Rye

**Speechless**

**Chapter 4.4: No Love Left To Rye**

* * *

><p><strong>December 15, 2006<strong>

With Christmas only ten days away, things were quite hectic in the Lestrade household, particularly for Aster. After all, it was going to be Grace's first Christmas, and while she knew her infant daughter would most likely not remember the holiday, she wanted it to be special. Thus, she had decked the flat out so lavishly that it seemed to her husband as he slouched through the door that evening that he had stepped into a forest or the lair of a mad woodcutter.

While the large tree by the window of their sitting room was plastic, as were the garlands and boughs that covered nearly every surface with dark green, Aster had taken the time to diffuse evergreen scented oil throughout the room, so thick that Lestrade choked briefly as he tried to catch his breath. The tree itself was littered with tinsel and ornaments in crimson and burgundy and silver, so much so that it was hard to see the green.

Still, this was hardly unusual. Aster had always been rather fond of shiny things. It was one of the reasons it had taken Lestrade so long to propose to her - he had been too poor to afford a ring she would accept.

But as he turned to the other side of the room to put his soaked gloves by the fire to dry, he noticed something odd.

Four stockings hung over the large brick fireplace. He recognized his own, an embroidered monstrosity his mother had made many years ago featuring the Christ child riding on the back of a rather overweight reindeer. And next to it was Aster's, a simple emerald green satin with black lace. But the other two. . . Well, one was clearly for Grace. But the last. . .

"Hey, love?" he asked loudly, the curiosity evident in his voice.

"Hmm?" Aster replied from the bedroom. "Hang on, I've got to finish wrapping this package."

When she emerged, wearing a particularly ostentatious Christmas sweater, she smiled gently at him.

"Yes? What is it, dear?"

He gestured at the stockings. "Four?"

She nodded. "Yes. I forgot to tell you? I've invited Sherlock over for Christmas. Poor dear had nowhere to go, and I thought it would be nice to have him back."

He felt his heart sink in his chest. Of all the things she could have done, why on earth. . . He'd been avoiding Sherlock like the plague the past few months, trying to distance himself so he could think more clearly, and. . .

Aster's eyes brimmed with concern. "That's not a problem, is it, Greg?"

He gulped. "N-no," he managed. "Not at all. That was quite kind of you. I. . . I should have thought of it."

She beamed at him, satisfied that she'd done the right thing. She kissed him on the cheek.

"Why don't you go check on Grace while I finish my errands."

He smiled and nodded. Yes, playing with his tiny daughter would do him a world of good.

* * *

><p><strong>December 25, 2006<strong>

When they arrived back at the flat after Christmas Day mass, the family Lestrade was greeted by a note taped to the door. It was typed, on plain white paper.

_Thank you for saving me from a dreadful afternoon. Best be on your guard. -MH_

Lestrade rolled his eyes. He was getting more than a little tired of the Holmes brothers' penchant for drama.

Aster stared at him. "Should I be worried?"

He grimaced, pulling the door open. "Oh, no. I'm sure everything will be -"

Smoke wafted out of the door as he pulled it open. In panic, he threw himself into the room, only to see Sherlock sitting calmly at the kitchen table, feet on the seat next to him. The source of the smoke seemed to be coming from the toaster.

". . . fine." finished Lestrade, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"Happy Christmas," muttered Sherlock, not even bothering to look up. "You need a better toaster."

"What in God's name did you do?"

Sherlock sighed, glaring at him. "I was merely trying to make toasted cheese. You took too long, and I got bored. Next time, if you're inviting me over at eleven, you should at least have the decency to be home by nine."

Aster wandered into the room and set the baby carrier on the counter, letting out a small cry of dismay as she saw the state of her kitchen. Lestrade looked at her apologetically before turning back to Sherlock.

"First of all, you can't make toasted cheese in a toaster, you barmpot. And more importantly, it's only ten. Why the hell are you here already?"

"Well fine," muttered Sherlock. "If you didn't want me here, you could have just said."

"That's not what I'm saying."

"You didn't have to." Sherlock stared at him, his eyes filled with curious light that made Lestrade feel more than a little uncomfortable. It was the same look Sherlock had given him in his dreams. "I know Aster invited me, which suggests that you did not either think it a wise idea or simply did not think of it yourself. Coupled with the fact that you've been dodging me, I think a half-dead lobster could take that hint. I'll just let myself out."

He stood to leave, turning his back on the detective inspector.

"Wait!" cried Aster. "At least open your presents!"

But he was gone.

Aster rounded on her husband, eyes flashing with ire. "Damn it, Gregory Sholto Lestrade, why must you ruin everything?"

Grace began to scream in echo to her mother, writhing against her baby carrier with tiny clenched fists.

He stared at Aster in shock. "What did I do?"

"You. . . You. . ." She slammed her fist into the table. "You ruined Christmas! I worked so hard, so very hard to make this work. I wanted it to be special. I wanted the whole family together, for Grace."

She looked over at the baby, still screaming and sobbing. "And now, you've gone and wrecked it."

"Wait. What? I didn't do anything. Sherlock's the one who. . . And Sherlock's not family."

She shook her head. "Yes, he is, Greg. You brought that boy into our home, and that made him family. And you know the worst part?" She looked at him, tears beginning to run down her face. "I thought having him back would be good for you. And maybe it is. But I can't do this any more."

"Look, if it's about the toaster. . ."

"It's not about the damned toaster! We can get a new toaster. But maybe it's time I get a new marriage."

He stared at her in shock. Where in the hell did that come from? "What?"

"I've been supportive, Greg. Don't you understand? I was trying to be understanding here, to hold out an olive branch. But I can't be my husband and Sherlock's boyfriend at the same time."

Time seemed to slow down as Lestrade desperately tried to process her words. "What are you talking about? I have no interest in -"

"Don't. Just don't, ok?" The pain bloomed from her eyes. "Please, don't lie to me. I'm not stupid."

"Listen to me," he cooed softly, trying to calm her down as he would a craze man with a gun. "I love you. You. My wife. I am not interested in men in general, nor Sherlock in particular." He chucked at the ludicrousness of it all. "I mean, God. Of all men, he'd be my last choice. I mean, really?"

"Stop lying to me. Your whole department knows. God, Greg! You're a joke among your own men!"

"What?"

She tossed a manila envelope at him. It was addressed to her. He opened it tentatively.

Inside were photographs of him and Sherlock at the park years ago. An incident report from Anderson about Sherlock tackling Lestrade in the office. Medical reports from the hospital citing Lestrade as Sherlock's husband. And surveillance photographs showing him leaving the ground-floor flat with a very naked Sherlock in the background staring at him.

He gulped. This could not be happening. This should not be happening. He had done nothing wrong, nothing at all. Why. . .

"Aster, I can explain. It's not at all what it looks like."

"I'm afraid it's too late for that." She picked up Grace's carrier, wiping the tears from her eyes. "I won't be your beard, Greg. And I'm certainly not sticking around here to be played the fool. I was going to tell you after Christmas, but there's no reason to salvage it now. I'm leaving before you drag your daughter into this scandal."

"But Aster -"

"I love you, Greg. I always will."

And she was gone.

* * *

><p><strong>December 31, 2006<strong>

Lestrade sat alone in his flat, surrounded by the tatters of his simple and honest life. His wife and daughter had left him. His career was smeared by scandal. And he was nearly out of reasons to fight any more.

The beer-bottle mosaic that covered the table in front of him was certainly impressive, though hardly complete. He reached groggily about himself, coming up empty. Groaning, he threw himself at the fridge. Inside was a bottle of champagne that Aster had bought before she left. He opened it sloppily, spraying himself and the kitchen wall with fizz.

"Happy fucking new year," he muttered, swigging out of the bottle.

He would not even remember toppling over onto the floor.


	16. Chapter 5 Part 1: It's Complicated

**Speechless**

**Chapter 5.1: It's Complicated**

* * *

><p><strong>January 1, 2007<strong>

"Lestrade?" Sherlock called tentatively, holding a new toaster under one arm. He was not sure what he was doing back at the flat. It defied all logic, really. After all, he and the detective inspector had not just had a falling-out. There had been something ugly brewing between them for a long while now, and he supposed that it had really only been a matter of time before one of them snapped.

And then there was Lestrade himself. Sherlock prided himself on his ability to understand motives and to dissect the human condition. But somehow, this particular man had a habit of surprising him. Here was a person who had every reason to be cruel, and yet was always so kind. . . It didn't make sense. He had watched over Sherlock for years in a way no one else had. He was someone he could depend on, and that terrified the young detective.

If there was one thing Sherlock hated, it was to owe anyone anything. Owing people favours tended to curb one's freedom, and there was nothing of greater value to him than the freedom to do as he pleased. He knew that one of these days Lestrade would ask him for something he wouldn't want to give, and he would have to choose between repaying his debt and vanishing again.

"Are you in there?" he asked.

No answer. Good. He could break in and leave again before the man got back.

As he opened the door, the smell of spilled, stale beer and filth assaulted his nose. He frowned in concern. Something wasn't right.

"Hello?"

Still no reply. He opened the door the rest of the way, stepping into the kitchen.

His eyes widened in shock as he saw the unmoving silhouette of Lestrade's body curled up on the floor, cooled blood puddled about his still form. He dropped the toaster and threw himself to the ground next to the man, moving a hand to his cheek.

Sherlock sighed in relief. Still warm, barely. There was a good chance that Lestrade was still alive, then. He listened for breathing, and was greeted with uneven, ragged gasps.

Alive, but not in good condition.

"Wake up, will you?" he muttered angrily. Sherlock prided himself on many things, but a working knowledge of emergency medical techniques were not in his repertoire. He thought feverishly, trying to figure out what to do.

Finally, he elected to just start slapping him in the face. It might not be effective, but it would be therapeutic at the very least.

"What. . . Is wrong. . . With you?" he hissed between slaps. "Are you really. . . Going. . . To go out. . . Like this? I won't. . . let you. . . Not when I. . . still owe you. . . You moron!"

Lestrade groaned, his eyes twitching. It wasn't much, but it was all the encouragement Sherlock needed. He smacked him hard across the jaw with the flesh of his hand.

"Get up, you stupid excuse for a detective! We've got work to do."

Lestrade grabbed his wrist weakly.

"What the hell is your problem?" he groaned softly, alcohol-glazed eyes glaring up at him foggily. "Haven't you ruined my life enough already?"

Sherlock reeled back, his blue-grey eyes wide with hurt. "What?"

"Don't. . . get coy. Why did I ever help you?" With that, he lost consciousness again.

Sherlock's eyes hardened as he set his jaw, lifting Lestrade from the ground and dragging him to the bathroom.

"I haven't the foggiest. But it's my turn now."

* * *

><p>As he peeled off the detective's filthy clothes, Sherlock noticed with some concern that he appeared thinner than normal. Lestrade had always been on the muscular side, but he could distinctly see the man's ribs against his tight skin. And this was not merely a recent thing, he suspected. The man had not been eating well for months now.<p>

His concern deepened as he found the source of the blood on the floor. There was a jagged cut on the man's side, just above his left kidney. It had scabbed over since it was made with black caked blood, but a large piece of brown glass - probably from a broken beer bottle - still protruded from the wound. As he had removed the man's shirt, Sherlock had torn away some of the scabbing, causing it to bleed again. He touched the wound tentatively, then pried the glass shard away, grunting in dismay as dark blood followed it.

"You had better be alright," he muttered, "or I shall never forgive you for this."

He turned on the bath, soaking a washrag in the hot water. He cleaned the man's wound gently, taking great care not to press too hard on the wound. Fortunately, it was not as bad as it had looked at first. The cut was shallow, and should heal quickly, though it would probably leave a hell of a scar.

He fumbled in the medicine cabinet for some adhesive sutures, closing the cut as best he could. Then, he turned back to the problem at hand: Lestrade's general state of filthiness.

"With a cut like that, I can't exactly toss you in the bathtub," he mused. "So I suppose I'll have to do this the hard way."

He sighed, wringing out the washrag and soaking it in water again, scrubbing the older man's torso gently with it to remove a week's worth of grime. This was going to be a long day.

* * *

><p><strong>January 3, 2007<strong>

The first thing Lestrade saw when he came to was a large glass of water on his bedside table. He moaned as he reached for it, his body crying out in pain.

"Here," intoned a familiar, deep voice. Sherlock handed him the glass. "You need to drink all of it. You've been unconscious for days."

"What are you doing here?" Lestrade asked, puzzled.

"Well, I came to replace your toaster. But I decided playing nurse would be more rewarding."

Lestrade frowned as the events of the last few weeks unfolded around him. Aster. . . She. . . That bastard!

"Get the hell out of my flat!" He bellowed.

Sherlock stared at him in disbelief, and he felt an instant pang of regret.

"If that's what you want," he said simply, heading for the door.

"Wait."

Sherlock turned, eyeing him cautiously. "Yes?"

Lestrade sighed, gesturing to himself. "Did you. . .?"

"Yes."

He nodded. "Thank you."

Sherlock smirked slightly. "Just repaying the favor."

Lestrade chuckled, wincing as the movement sparked pain in his side. This brought him back to the seriousness of the situation.

"Sherlock, we have to talk."

The taller man nodded, sitting carefully in a chair next to Lestrade's bed. "Yes, we do."

He found it harder to begin than he had imagined. Ever since Aster had showed him the folder, he had been thinking up a response to it. And yet, now that he was about to confront Sherlock about it, he couldn't remember any of it. He sighed. Time to use the Holmes method and be as blunt as humanly possible.

"My wife thinks we're sleeping together," he blurted.

Sherlock stared at him with less shock than amusement. "Oh really? We aren't, are we? I should think I would have noticed."

"This isn't funny. My wife is filing for divorce."

"No. You're right." Sherlock's eyes flashed enigmatically. "But why should she think that?"

Lestrade sighed. "That's the problem. It's not just her. I'm in hot water at work over this as well. There's to be an inquest into all our recent cases together, whether protocol was followed, that sort of thing."

Sherlock frowned. "I don't understand. How did anyone get that idea?"

Lestrade pointed to the folder. "Someone sent this to Aster and the higher-ups at work. Whoever put it together was good. Very good. Even I have to admit that, taken out of context, it's pretty damning."

Sherlock looked through the folder, lost in thought.

Lestrade watched him, his heart racing slightly, against his will. It had been a long time since he'd gotten a chance to just watch Sherlock, and he had nearly forgotten just how. . . Oh, what was the point? He shook his head. With the dreams, the folder. . . Whatever this was all about, perhaps it was for the best. Maybe a part of him even wished the accusations were true.

He frowned. No. That wasn't right. He couldn't possibly. .. He had a wife, a daughter. He wasn't even. . . For God's sake, it was Sherlock!

It was Sherlock. He realized with a sudden sense of dread that everything since they had met had been leading up to this. There was something so different, so infuriatingly right about the man. He had known it from the minute they'd met in the alley behind the Globe. Every meeting, every obnoxious slur, every time their eyes met. . .

Once he stopped to think about it, everything suddenly made sense.

"Sherlock," he said, his voice throaty and timorous. "I think. . ."

"Don't worry." the younger man flashed a sad sort of smile at him. "I don't know who's done this to you, but I know how to fix it."

"You do?"

"I'll tell them all the truth."

His heart stopped mid-beat. "The. . . The truth?"

"Yes. That, in point of fact, the whole thing is ludicrous because I have no interest in you whatsoever."

Sherlock's point-of-fact statement stabbed him clean in the chest. Oh. So he. . . Oh.

"Thank you," he managed weakly, forcing a smile.

"No problem," replied Sherlock, eying him with that dangerous light in his eyes again. "And I shall stay clear until this matter is dealt with, to prevent anyone from thinking differently."

"Good."

Sherlock nodded awkwardly, leaving the room with folder in hand.

"Good," Lestrade repeated, trying to believe it.

But it was a lie. Nothing would ever be good again.


	17. Chapter 5 Part 2: I'm A Loser In Love

**Speechless**

**Chapter 5.2: I'm A Loser In Love**

* * *

><p><strong>February 10, 2008<strong>

Sherlock Holmes had, surprisingly, proven himself to be a man of his word. It had only taken a matter of months for the issue to be dropped and for Lestrade's position on the force to be solidified once more.

Of course, not everything had been fixed. Aster had remarried, this time to a man nearly a decade her junior, a young accountant by the name of Rick Ambrose, recently of Cambridge. Not that Lestrade faulted her. Even though the final straw that had broken their marriage had been a lie, he had always thought Aster deserved better than a jaded man like himself. He was happy that she was happy, and as long as he got to see his daughter, it was alright.

Grace had grown into a bumbling toddler almost overnight, in his mind. She had Aster's eyes, yet but for that she was every ounce her father's daughter. Poor thing. She was constantly wandering off, according to Aster.

"I swear, watching that girl is a full-time job," she said as they sat at a small pizzeria downtown. She was clearly frazzled. "I should put her on a leash."

He laughed at this. "I doubt it would do much good. With your will. . ."

"And your need to stick your nose where it doesn't belong. . ." she smirked. "Poor girl was doomed from the start. She'll either be a detective or a criminal, that one."

He nodded in agreement. "With your influence, I'm sure it will be the former." He nodded at her swelling abdomen. "You and Rick expecting?"

She nodded, her face aglow. "Yes."

"I'm happy for you." And he meant it. Aster had always been well-suited for motherhood. His greatest regret in all of this was not having more children with her. He knew that after Duncan. . . Well, that was all over now.

"And how are things with you?" she asked, eying him with concern. "Are you eating all right? Getting enough sleep?"

He nodded. "Things are good. As good as they ever are. They've given me a new team in Homicide, and they're pretty capable. New sergeant's a firebrand. Sally Donovan. Makes me feel old."

"Well, you are old," Aster joked, fluffing his hair. "Only a matter of time before they ask you to retire."

He growled at her. "That's dangerous ground, woman."

She smiled sadly at him. "Indeed. So, I hope you don't mind me asking, but any word on where Sherlock is?"

He felt a small stab of pain in his gut at the mention of the young detective. It had been more than a year since they had last spoken, the young man having faded back into the shadows as he had promised. Lestrade had almost forgotten about him. Almost.

"No. He hasn't. . . I mean, no."

She touched his arm gently. "Greg. You can't spend the rest of your life like this. You need to move on. Get a girlfriend or something. You don't need to be alone."

He smiled at her sadly. "Yes I do. Aster, it's my fault everything turned out this way. I was being foolish, and I let myself get involved with something I didn't understand. This is my penance."

"Some hell kind of penance. You're an idiot. Go talk to Father John about this, at least. He'll tell you the same thing."

* * *

><p><strong>February 11, 2008<strong>

"You're an idiot."

Lestrade eyed the grill of the confessional in shock. "Father?"

The priest sighed. "What, you were expecting me to tell you that yes, you're a terrible person who deserves to be miserable? My son, we aren't Lutherans you know. Yes, you've sinned. And frankly, you should have come to confession years ago. But the Church is not so harsh a mistress. Our Lord loves you, as he loves all his children. And he wants you to be happy."

"But Father, I've lusted after -"

"Yes, yes. I know. You keep bringing that up. Lust is a mortal sin, make no mistake. But you know what else is? Acedia. Your refusal to pull yourself out of this cycle of depression because you don't think you deserve happiness is worse than anything else in you. And it is the shadow sister of pride. So cheer up, get out there, and do something that makes you happy for once."

Lestrade frowned. "What, so you want me to -"

The priest chuckled. "Don't break the law, and try not to screw up too badly. But for the sake of all the saints in heaven, stop brooding! Your penance is to go enjoy your life for a while. And pray a rosary for that detective of yours."

"Is that all?"

"Isn't that enough?"

"I suppose."

The priest sighed. "May the Passion of our Lord, Jesus Christ, the intercession of our Blessed Virgin Mary and of all the saints, whatever good you do and suffering you endure heal your sins, help you to grow in holiness, and reward you with eternal life. Go in peace."

"Amen."

* * *

><p>As Lestrade left St. George's, he felt an odd sense of peace wash over him, coupled with the nagging feeling that he'd just been played. Father had always been a bit of a soft-hearted man, but to suggest that Lestrade's sins were not so great. . .<p>

He sighed. No matter. The priest had given him an order, and like all good Catholics, he had to obey.

As he was trying to think of what he could possibly do that would bring him any joy, he came across a dark shape huddled against the dirty Southwark snow. Another beggar, he thought, reaching in his pocket for some spare change.

Beggars frequented the areas near churches, relying on the compunction of penitents to earn some money for food. It was official policy to tell them to stop loitering, but Lestrade had never seen the harm in helping the poor, no matter how annoying they could be. After all, they were part of his city too, and life was cruel enough to them without being on the receiving end of a kick or a slur.

As he tossed the coins in the figure's cup, a set of long, bony fingers snaked out from the shivering bundle and wrapped about his arm. He swatted the hand away in panic.

The figure chuckled. "I see how it is," his low voice rumbled. "You always were a fan of the hands-off method."

He stared at the man in shock and confusion. "Sherlock? What in God's name -"

"I'm afraid I disappointed you again."

Sherlock pulled his coat away from his face, revealing his skeletal cheeks and bloodshot eyes. His skin was nearly as pale as the snow with the exception of sooty circles about his eyes.

"You started using again." It was a statement, not a question. The evidence was clear.

"Yes," he replied simply.

"Why?"

"Helps me think," he replied, as if that made it all better.

"Codswallop," replied Lestrade, hauling the man to his feet. "You know better. Come on, let's get some coffee into you. You'll catch your death out here."

"Leave me alone," he muttered. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"I don't know," replied Lestrade. "Probably because you're a bleeding dumbass."

Sherlock chuckled, shivering against him. "Fine. But it's your funeral if this costs you your job."

Lestrade found he simply didn't care.

* * *

><p>His body was warm, but Sherlock's shivers would not abet. Lestrade frowned as he wrapped yet another blanket around the man.<p>

"You're having withdrawal, aren't you?"

Sherlock groaned, his face pale and slightly green. "Whatever. . . Gave you that idea?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Look, it's your own fault. If you just got clean, you'd never have to deal with this again."

"And if you got me a nip, I wouldn't rip your fucking head off!" exclaimed Sherlock, his icy eyes bright with need and resentment.

Lestrade shook his head. "No, I'm not going to steal drugs for you. And you're to stay in this flat until it's out of your system, you hear? I'll handcuff you to the bed if I have to."

"I dare you to try." He struggled to stand, dashing for the door.

Lestrade caught the weakened man easily, throwing him to the floor and pinning him.

"It's for your own good!"

"You don't give a damn about my own good! If you did, you'd have … "

Sherlock trailed off, his eyes fading to melancholy again.

"I'd have what?" Lestrade's heart raced. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

After all, Sherlock had said it, hadn't he? That he had no interest in him whatsoever? So whatever he was going to say, it couldn't possibly be what Lestrade wanted him to say, but -

"You'd have told me the truth, Greg."

"What?" He stared at the man beneath him in shock.

"That you. . . You really do. . . Don't you?" Sherlock's eyes were liquid, pleading, and vulnerable for once. It took all of Lestrade's willpower not to take advantage of the situation.

"I really what?" he whispered huskily, unable to slow his breathing.

Sherlock didn't answer, just leaned up shakily and kissed him tentatively on the nose. Then he roughly head butted him, flipping him off with the considerable strength that only came with adrenaline and a hunger for drugs.

Lestrade lay there in a daze for a few seconds, his mind racing, before he reached out a hand and grabbed Sherlock's ankle, sending him face-first into the door.

He gasped, pulling himself to his feet and staring at the unconscious detective with confusion.

"I don't know what the hell you're playing at, Sherlock. But I'm not going to let you out of my sight until I get answers."


	18. Chapter 5 Part 3: Raise A Glass To Mend

**Speechless**

**Chapter 5.3: Raise a Glass to Mend**

* * *

><p><strong>February 12, 2008<strong>

Sherlock came to with a gasp, fighting for a few moments of frantic desperation with the bonds on his wrists before he realized what had happened.

Lestrade heard the clanking of the handcuff chains against his brass bedpost and poked his head into the room, a satisfied smirk on his face.

"I warned you, you know. It's not advisable to assault a cop."

Sherlock glared at him, clearly unhappy to be in such a vulnerable position. He winced slightly as the facial movement sent shocks through his face.

Lestrade walked into the room, carrying a tray of soup and toast. He picked up a small washrag and wiped gently at Sherlock's face, ignoring the man's attempts to turn his head away. It was no use anyway. Every time he moved, his face just ached more.

"Hold still, Sherlock. You've got a nasty shiner and a busted nose. I set your nose as well as I could, but I do hope you don't pick any more fights with my door."

He pulled the cloth back as Sherlock growled at him like a feral badger. The half-dried blood from his nose was a sharp contrast to the white of the cloth. Lestrade sighed. That was probably his last unstained washrag.

He offered his prisoner some food. Sherlock looked at him like he was an idiot, waving his bound hands.

"Clearly you didn't think this one through. Why am I not surprised?"

Lestrade smirked. "No matter. I guess I'll just have to feed you, won't I?"

Sherlock's eyes burned with annoyance.

"You planned this all along, didn't you?"

"Maybe. Hell, if it gets you to eat. . ." he dipped a spoon into the bowl, lifting the weak broth to the detective's lips.

Sherlock stared at him petulantly, refusing to open his mouth.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Look here, Sherlock. I don't want to do it, but I will start making train noises if you refuse to eat like an adult."

He opened his mouth just wide enough to accept the spoon, his eyes not softening. It was clear that he considered this a great affront to his dignity, and frankly, Lestrade didn't blame him. But he had warned him, and he would do whatever it took to get him on the mend again, even if he had to break his nose a few more times.

As the soup slowly vanished from the bowl, Sherlock relaxed a little bit, gradually being more accepting of the older man's ministrations. By the time it was empty, he was no longer straining against his handcuffs.

Lestrade smiled gently down at him. "That wasn't so hard, now was it?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly. "Why are you doing this?"

Lestrade ignored the question. He wanted to tell him how important he was to him, how he blamed himself for the condition of the younger man, and how he never wanted to let him leave again. But now was hardly the time to get into all that.

"Here," he said simply, pulling the key to his handcuffs out of his jacket pocket. "I'm sure your arms are tired."

Sherlock looked up at him eagerly. So eagerly that it gave Lestrade pause.

"Now Sherlock, you have to promise that if I take these off you will stay put."

It was clear from the disappointment in his eyes that staying put was the last thing on Sherlock's mind.

Lestrade grinned. "Right. One hand at a time then."

He uncuffed Sherlock's left wrist, staring with a pang of guilt at the welts left behind from the cruel metal. The trouble with regulation handcuffs was that they weren't exactly designed for comfort. He picked up the wet washrag and a bottle of lotion Aster had left behind and began to tend to the injury.

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock repeated, an edge of desperation to his voice this time.

Lestrade met his flood lock gaze, doing his best to repress his emotions. He knew Sherlock would probably be able to see through them anyway, but he was more interested to read the other man, to see the strange enigmatic light behind the crippling sadness in his eyes.

He turned away. "Because I have to," he said simply, hoping this would put an end to the matter. He re-cuffed Sherlock's arm and reached around to the other one, releasing it.

Before he could begin work on the other arm, Sherlock grabbed him by the collar, pulling him within inches of his face.

"That's not an answer," he said simply, smirking wearily. "And you know it."

Lestrade calmly reached around and loosened his grip finger by finger. "It's the only answer you're going to get."

Sherlock responded by violently vomiting all over them both, then passing out.

* * *

><p>After Lestrade finished cleaning himself, the room, and Sherlock - all the while thoroughly grateful that Sherlock's body had rejected the food before he'd had much time to digest it - he returned to the room to watch over his unwilling houseguest.<p>

He gently brushed Sherlock's hair away from his forehead, noting with some concern that his temperature had spiked. That, coupled with the vomiting and irritability confirmed what he had feared. Sherlock was going through heavy drug withdrawal. For heroin.

Lestrade had never done anything harder than nicotine and booze, but having spent enough time around users, he had learned the differences in withdrawal symptoms. This realization sent a wave of anger and terror through him as he traced the track marks on Sherlock's arms.

Yes, there were still the smaller needle marks from his cocaine injections. But now that he looked closer, he could clearly make out several more recent marks that were larger, from a wider syringe. He shook his head sadly.

"It was bad enough before," he whispered. "Whatever possessed you to take up something even worse?"

He feared - and yet in a sick way, hoped - that he knew the answer. He gulped, fighting back tears. The last thing he wanted was for the man to regain consciousness while he was blubbering like a woman.

"Please, Sherlock, please tell me this wasn't my doing."

He leaned over the unconscious detective gingerly, hoping not to wake him. He pressed his lips gently against his forehead, lingering for just a moment before pulling away.

"I should never forgive myself," he whispered.

Sherlock murmured in his sleep, his eyes twitching nervously.

Lestrade could not make out what he was saying. The few words that surfaced were in French, he surmised. He sighed, easing himself into a chair to continue watching over him, as he always would.

* * *

><p>"My God, the elephants!" bellowed Sherlock.<p>

"Guah!" cried Lestrade, nearly falling out of the chair in shock.

He looked over at Sherlock, who appeared to have startled himself awake. The man's mouth was agape, as if some brilliant thought had broken him temporarily. Lestade imagined that, were his hands free, he would have clasped them to his nose.

"What is it, Sherlock?" he asked, willing his heart to stop exploding.

"The elephants! The rubies were in the elephants all along! That's why I couldn't find them. The wretches must have moved them out of the country."

"What the devil are you talking about?"

Sherlock smiled slyly at him. "A smuggling case I was working on a few years back, for Mycroft. I never figured it out. Always haunted me."

Lestrade grinned. "What, a case the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't solve?"

"Clearly erroneous, my dear Lestrade. I've solved it now, haven't I?"

He chuckled. "A few years late, though."

The glare Sherlock directed at him was priceless. "If I weren't handcuffed to this bed right now, I'd -"

"What? Hit me? I can take you any day. I'd like to see you try."

"And I you. Without your damned door this time."

They beamed at each other. Lestrade sighed. Just like old times.

He walked to Sherlock's side, pulling the key from his pocket again.

"Now no fighting until you've got your strength back. I'd feel guilty handing you your arse when you weren't at full strength."

Sherlock's eyes flashed mischievously. "Agreed. Though that will simply make my victory all the sweeter."

"Right."

Lestrade removed the handcuffs.

Sherlock rubbed his wrists gingerly. "Thank you," he said simply.

"For what?"

"For looking after me. Not that I liked it, mind," he added hastily.

Lestrade laughed. "I told you I'd always be here, didn't I?"

Sherlock's eyes darkened. "But you aren't. Not really. Sometimes I. . ." He paused, staring at the duvet.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade stared at him in concern.

He stared back, quickly shielding himself behind his signature smirk. "It doesn't matter. Anyway, while we're here, are you working on anything interesting?"

Lestrade sighed. "I'll go find you some folders."


	19. Chapter 5 Part 4: My Wrecked Up Friends

**Speechless**

**Chapter 5.4: All My Wrecked Up Friends**

* * *

><p><strong>February 20, 2008<strong>

"No."

"No?" Lestrade looked at Anderson incredulously.

"Absolutely not. I'm not working with him. You can't make me. Hey! Hands off!" Anderson glared at Sherlock, who was rifling through some slides on the lab table and generally making a mess of things.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sneaking bits of evidence into his pockets. Lestrade coughed, and he begrudgingly put the items back.

"It's not permanent, Anderson. You know we need his help on this one, so why can't you just -"

"Do we?" Anderson's eyes flashed angrily. "I don't recall ever ONCE really needing his help."

"Hmm," mused Sherlock. "Memory issues, Anderson?"

"Shut it, you. I mean that we were fine before you came around is all."

Sherlock sighed, his eyes drifting to the floor. Lestrade knew that look, and it tore a gash in his heart just watching it. He turned on Anderson, his voice shaking.

"A word, Anderson?"

The younger man nodded, and Lestrade pulled him roughly to the other side of the room, facing away from Sherlock. He had already learned how accomplished the man was at reading lips. He whispered harshly into Anderson's ear.

"Look. I know you don't like him. But you have to help me with this. Please. He has to feel like he's being useful, or he'll. . ." he sighed. "I'm afraid he'll get mixed up in drugs again."

"So you expect me to work with a bleeding addict now?" Anderson shouted.

"Shh!" hissed Lestrade. "He's clean, for now. Can you just try to play nice?"

"No offense towards your madman, sir, but I meant what I said. We were a good team, weren't we? Why do we need him at all?"

Lestrade frowned. "He has helped us solve cases faster than we ever could before. You know that. And in our line of work, speed matters."

Anderson sighed. "Fine. I'll behave. But only if he does."

They turned back to Sherlock, who was scuffing his feet on the tile, looking miserable.

"Right," said Lestrade. "Anderson has something to say to you, Sherlock."

Anderson pleaded with him with an expression of agony on his face. "Do I have to?"

Lestrade nodded.

He sighed. "I'm. . . I'm sorry."

"You should be," replied Sherlock curtly. He gazed over at Lestrade with a similarly pained expression. "Are we done here?"

Lestrade sighed. "Fine."

The bitter feud between Anderson and Sherlock had been wearing him for years, and now it was clear to him that there would be no quick resolution to it. He didn't quite understand why it had happened, but he really wished they could just work together in peace. Still, it seemed that they would forever be locked in a playground struggle.

Sherlock's side of it he understood, not that it was an excuse for his bad behavior. The man was simply intolerant of other people, particularly when they made mistakes. Anderson was good at his job, but he unfortunately made too good of a punching bag. Sherlock liked it when people fought back.

Lestrade was at a loss for Anderson's behavior, however. He had no excuse for antagonizing Sherlock except for jealousy, but that he denied with a passion. The detective inspector shrugged, stalking out of the lab and back to the main office.

* * *

><p>"So as I was saying," continued Sherlock, "I don't understand how you work with these incompetent morons. . . Lestrade, are you even listening to me?"<p>

"Hmm?" mused Lestrade.

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, I suppose you've rather provided the answer to that one. Now about this internal investigation of yours. . . Could you show me the office?"

Lestrade yawned, nodding and leading the man to the other side of the building where police tape sealed off a rather frightful crime scene.

Detective Constable Alexander Forth had been a relatively recent member of Lestrade's unit, a rather eager young man with watery brown eyes and impossible hair. He had been working on a particularly dull round of paperwork for Donovan which had kept him in the office late at night. In the morning, when she had returned to her desk, she had found him. . . Well. . .

"Wallpapered," said Sherlock in something like awe, a sick smile spread on his face. "Beautiful work, too. I've never seen anything like it."

Lestrade stared at him. He would never get used to how insensitive the young man could be. One of his men, brutally killed in his own building, and here he was reveling in the horrid details of it.

The body had, naturally, been removed - what parts could be found, at least - save the man's skin, which was adhered to the wall. Sherlock sauntered over to it, staring at the man's hide intensely. Lestrade looked away in disgust as he began to sniff at it.

"Hmm. . . Pine sap? Resin, perhaps? Tell, me, Lestrade, was there a note or anything?"

"You mean besides that one?" he waved a hand at the right-side wall, where the killer had scrawled BITCH in large letters. "I doubt the killer had much time to do anything else."

"Yes, skinning a man alive would take time."

Lestrade stared at him, the gorge rising in his throat. "Alive?"

Sherlock nodded. "Only way to achieve these striations in the skin. Oxygen had to be flowing through the -"

Lestrade bent over the rubbish bin, losing his breakfast rather violently. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, looking up at Sherlock in a mixture of regret and disgust.

"You idiot," managed Sherlock.

"Oh, that's nice," croaked Lestrade. "As if I couldn't feel worse."

"You don't understand, do you?" Sherlock was indignant. "I hadn't had a look in that bin yet!"

"Well, forgive me. Next time I'll just spew on Donovan's desk. How would you like that?"

Sherlock's eyes went wide. "Brilliant!"

"What?"

"The desk! Highest vantage point in the room from up there! Give me that." He grabbed the bin and climbed on top of the desk with it.

"I don't see -"

"Of course you don't. But I do." Sherlock gestured to the floor. "There's more here. Something damp on the carpet."

"Blood?"

He scoffed. "Don't be silly. Get up here."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "I'm not climbing on that desk with you, Sherlock."

"You really should."

"Why?"

"Because," replied Sherlock, pulling a match out of his pocket and striking it, "the floor might not be a very comfortable place in a few seconds."

"Sherlock," warned Lestrade, "Don't you dare. . ."

But it was too late. Lestrade leapt on the desk frantically as the match fell, igniting the carpet with a loud whoosh.

Sherlock was cackling, his eyes glittering with delight as the fire alarms chorused. "See here, Lestrade," he said, gesturing at the pattern on the floor. "Turpentine. Specifically turpentine-based varnish. Oh, clever!"

Words began to emerge out of the flames. _Cheating son of a…_

"I see," said Lestrade. "But who is this message for?"

"Isn't it obvious?" piped Sherlock. "Oh. I suppose not. Looks like someone's been beating the chain of command. You really ought to have a chat with -"

"What the hell?" screeched Donovan, throwing herself into the room. "What have you done to my office?"

Lestrade looked at Sherlock. Clearly, they were a sight, standing on her desk surrounded by flames. Sherlock smiled demurely.

"Ah, Sergeant Donavan."

"My. . . My office is on fire!"

"Oh, brilliant observation."

"What? Put it out!" she shrieked, nearing hysterics. "Put it out!"

Sherlock shrugged, upending the rubbish bin on the worst of it.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. He leapt from the desk and ran for the fire extinguishers.

* * *

><p>"That freak," muttered Donavon. "That unnatural, sick, twisted freak."<p>

Lestrade sighed. "To be fair, it did help us find a motive."

"But sir," she piped. "With all due respect, my office is ruined!"

"I'd say the killer did a good job at that before I got there," said Sherlock, peeking around the door. "Maybe next time don't let your boyfriend bleed out so much when he's getting murdered, hmm?"

She lunged for him, her face a contorted snarl. "How dare you -"

"Now, now," barked Lestrade, standing between them. "Cool it, both of you. Sherlock, say you're sorry."

"Sorry," he muttered under his breath.

"Sally?" He looked at her expectantly.

"Sorry," she hissed.

"Good." He smiled tiredly at them. "Now I really hope you two can get along. I'm going to need both of you to solve this one."

"What?" they replied simultaneously.

Lestrade sighed. It was going to be a long investigation.


	20. Chapter 6 Part 1: I'll Never Love Again

**Speechless**

**Chapter 6.1: I'll Never Love Again**

* * *

><p><strong>April 8, 2008<strong>

Lestrade hummed gently to himself as he sorted the massive piles of paperwork on his desk. It was not because he had a kink for organization. Hardly. If he could have ordered one of his Constables to take care of it without risking the entire department knowing about some of the more sensitive cases he was working, he would have done so in a heartbeat.

No, his unusually good mood could be attributed to the fact that, for the first time in years, everything felt right.

This was not to say that things between him and Sherlock had been resolved. He doubted that they ever would be. But he was strangely alright with that. It didn't matter if he was never able to tell him how he felt. Just having him around, just working together again. . . That was enough.

It had hurt more than he cared to admit when Sherlock had flippantly stated that he had no interest in him. It was that simple sentence that tore him apart far more than losing Aster, or even his job. He had tried over the last year to write it off as unimportant, but every time he remembered it, it gutted him a little more.

_The whole thing is ludicrous because I have no interest in you whatsoever._

It had been classic Sherlock: blunt and to the point, swift and sharp as a stiletto to the neck. It still tortured him, he mused.

And yet, while it pained him to remember, being able to spar with Sherlock again, to work together in a beautiful, tortuous partnership. . . It was worth it. Together, they were able to save so many lives, to avenge so many more. And while he knew it was all just a sick puzzle to the younger man, that he didn't give a damn about the citizens they were saving, Lestrade took comfort in the fact that at least they made a pretty good team.

And tonight, they were going to dinner to celebrate their twenty-fifth solved case together.

Sherlock had groaned with annoyance when he'd suggested it. But he had merely reminded the younger man how many favours he owed him, and that was enough.

"Fine. Dinner. You'd best be paying, though." His grey-blue eyes rolled in boredom and exasperation.

Lestrade grinned to himself as he pulled his coat off the hook and headed out the door. Yes, it was good to have things back to normal. . . Well, as close to normal as they ever could be again.

* * *

><p>He waited at the café for nearly three hours before he finally gave up.<p>

"Typical," he muttered. "Absolutely bloody typical."

He should have seen it coming. It wasn't as if Sherlock hadn't stood him up before. No, many was the time the younger man had "forgotten" or "had something more important to do". And with how positively thrilled he'd been about the prospect of dinner, Lestrade just knew the man had these excuses and many more besides.

"Stood you up?" inquired a gentle, tenor voice.

"What?"

Lestrade looked up to see a young waiter smiling sympathetically at him.

"Your date." the young man blushed. "Sorry, but it's just. . . I've seen it before. Terribly sorry for intruding."

"No, that's alright." Lestrade smiled at him warmly. "But not a date, per say. More a friend I was supposed to meet. Apparently he had other plans."

"Ah." The young man nodded, his eyes probing Lestrade's in much the same way Sherlock's always did. "Friend. Right. I can see that."

He pulled up a chair, sitting next to him, his brown eyes bright with concern.

"Only that's not exactly accurate, is it, Mr. . ."

"Lestrade," he offered. "And I don't know what you are talking about."

"Sure you do. Oh, come now, don't look so surprised. Like I said, I've seen that look before." He placed a small check pad next to him. "Why don't you settle up, and I'll buy you a drink."

"That's awfully unprofessional of you," replied Lestrade coolly. "And I'm afraid I must decline."

The young man sighed. "No matter."

He watched Lestrade leave, smiling rather subtly to himself, tongue flicking across his lips.

"Do say hello to him for me, will you?"

* * *

><p>Lestrade climbed the steps to his flat wearily. He suddenly felt so very old. When had he gotten so old?<p>

He stopped abruptly at his door. It was slightly ajar, and he was damn sure he'd locked it on his way out. He pushed it open gently, slowly, trying to get a bearing on what was waiting for him.

Suddenly, Sherlock's failure to appear took on a more sinister light. What if something terrible had happened? A thousand scenarios flashed through his mind: another murderer leaving him near-dead, unable to call for help. A kidnapper after both of them for a twisted revenge plot. Anderson finally snapping. . .

Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw when he opened the door.

Sherlock was sitting in Lestrade's chair, watching the fire. He nodded slightly as the older man entered, waving an empty bottle of Baileys at him.

"Hello. Fancy a drink?"

Lestrade stared at him, his relief boiling out of him in a fit of rage. "What the hell are you doing here? You were supposed to meet me ages ago, and here you are in my flat, drinking my liquor, and acting like there's nothing remotely wrong with that! Sometimes I can't stand you! I wish . . ."

He trailed off as he noticed the look of agony in Sherlock's eyes. Shit. Something was up.

He walked over to him slowly, keeping his eyes locked on the younger man's.

"What happened?" he asked softly.

Sherlock shook his head. "You're right of course. To be angry. I'm afraid I've been so disappointing."

"What are you talking about?" realization hit him like a baseball bat. "You drank that whole bottle, didn't you?"

Sherlock smiled, rolling his head to one side to get a better look at him. "It tastes nice. It'd be good in coffee."

"But. . ." Lestrade stared at him. "My god, you're pissed."

"I won't deny it."

He stood over him, eyes flashing in anger once more, this time out of genuine concern. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Sherlock gazed up at him, trying to focus on his face but consistently failing. "I was. . . I wanted to forget."

Oh dear. Lestrade pulled back, smiling gently down at him.

"Forget what, Sherlock?"

"Who I am. . . What I've done. Oh, I'm a terrible excuse for a human being."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. This old song and dance again. "Look, I've already told you I don't give a damn about your past. You're my friend, and you are a great man. I promise."

Sherlock sprung out of the chair, nearly sending them both to the floor.

"But you don't know! I'm not your friend, Lestrade! I. . . I. . ."

"What? Speak up, man!"

Sherlock's eyes glistened with guilt and self-hatred. "It was me. Greg, I. . . I'm the one who did it."

"Did what?" his brain was reeling. What was Sherlock confessing to? As the law, he would have to. . . If it was murder. . . Something worse. . . He didn't want to have to arrest him.

"I. . . I sent the folder. I destroyed your marriage. Almost destroyed your career."

Lestrade felt himself fall to the ottoman rather than actually making an effort to sit down. No. No, it had to be a lie. All the hell he'd gone through, every question, all the suspicion. . . Why?

"Did you hear me? I ruined your life!" Sherlock shouted, throwing his hands about angrily. "Aren't you going to do something about it?"

Lestrade was in shock. No. No, this couldn't be happening.

"Why did you do it." he stated rather than asked. Whatever fight was in him was silenced by the weight of his emotions. He was defeated. Now he just wanted the truth.

Sherlock collapsed to his knees, raising his eyes to level with Lestrade's.

"Because. . . Because I. . . It wasn't fair."

His lower lip quivered like that of a child who has broken his favourite toy. "I couldn't just stand by and watch you. . . I thought it was the only way."

"The only way to what?" Lestrade still wasn't sure what to make of all this. He felt simultaneously betrayed and intrigued.

"I wanted. . . I wanted you to. . . I. . ."

"Spit it out!" Anger, now. "God damn it, Sherlock! You tore my life apart! The least you can do is tell me why!"

"Because I had to!" he screamed back. His eyes fell to his chest and he picked idly at some loose strings on his shirt. "Because you were never honest with me! All I wanted was for you to tell me the truth, and you wouldn't."

"The truth?" But he knew. Oh, he already knew. It was so obvious. But he needed to hear Sherlock say it, to bring it to light.

"You need me. You do. But you'll never say how. You'll never explain. And I know. I've always known. But would it kill you to say it?"

"Say what?"

"That you want me. That you love me."

There it was. The ugly truth they had both been avoiding for so long.

"I. . .I. . ." stammered Lestrade.

Sherlock glared at him. "Oh, do I have to do everything?"

He grabbed the older detective by the back of the head and pulled him into a warm, sloppy kiss.

Lestrade's mind reeled as if he were the drunk one. He had never expected this, not even when he wanted to. It was always a fantasy, something that would never happen. But his lips were warm and moist and he tasted like Baileys and maybe thinking just didn't matter any more.

He gasped, pulling back. Sherlock gazed at him, hurt and confusion in his eyes.

"I'm sorry. I can't."

"Why not?"

Lestrade sighed. "Look, Sherlock. You just admitted that you made my world a living hell. On purpose. You've manipulated me into a corner. And I. . . I don't want to have this conversation right now, do I?"

"No. So why are we still arguing about this?" Sherlock kissed him again, with less hesitation this time.

It took all of Lestrade's willpower to pull away again.

"Stop it. Please."

"I don't want to."

He smiled gently at the younger man. Petulant as always. "You say that now. But what about tomorrow?"

"Forget tomorrow," Sherlock growled.

Lestrade shook his head. "I can't," he whispered.

Sherlock slumped, blinking slowly. He clearly wasn't expecting much resistance.

Lestrade sighed, scooping him up and dragging him to the spare bedroom. "You need to sleep this off. I'll see you in the morning. And maybe I'll be able to face you. But I'm not promising anything."

Sherlock grabbed him by the collar as he deposited him on the bed.

"I love you," he hissed sharply in Lestrade's ear.

Lestrade pulled away, trying to hide the tears in his eyes.

"I love you too. God knows why, but I do."

He kissed the groggy man gently on the forehead.

"But I know you won't remember this in the morning."

* * *

><p><strong>Only a few more updates left. . .<strong>** thanks to all of you who have been reading this from the beginning. It's been one hell of a ride!**


	21. Chapter 6 Part 2: After All The Drinks

**Speechless**

**Chapter 6.2: After All The Drinks**

* * *

><p><strong>June 20, 2008<strong>

The past few months had been hellish, Lestrade mused, groaning softly as he fought back the angry morning sun that filtered through his window. Bloody hangovers. He really needed to remember to hydrate the next time.

His prediction about Sherlock's memory of that night was either extremely accurate or the man was even better at keeping secrets than he'd supposed. For weeks, he'd been searching for a sign that he remembered, or that - dear heavens, please - he would say those words again. Sober. And mean them.

But nothing. Not even a glimmer. If anything, Sherlock seemed even more disinterested than normal. His focus was entirely on the case. Not that Lestrade could blame him. It was a nasty one, exactly the kind he loved the most.

And it wasn't simply Sherlock's apparent lack of memory that haunted Lestrade. It was also that other matter he had brought to light: Sherlock had nearly cost him his job. Had cost him his marriage. On purpose. How the hell was he supposed to deal with that?

The answer lay in the way he had always dealt with things he would rather not think about. Which explained the headache and the rapidly growing scruff on his face.

He moaned again, willing himself out of bed and stumbling to the kitchen to make himself some coffee. It was going to be one of those days again.

In point of fact, it was going to be worse. His phone vibrated on the counter, nearly causing him to have a heart attack. He picked it up wearily.

"Hello?" he growled. Jesus, not before coffee.

"Where the hell are you?" Anderson's voice sounded panicked. Not that that was unusual in itself.

"Ugh. At home. Why?"

"Your madman's destroying my lab. Again. He needs a leash, sir."

Lestrade groaned. Why, of all days. . .

"I'll be right there."

* * *

><p>"Sherlock, for the love of God, what are you doing?"<p>

The tall man smirked at him, then turned back to the table in front of him, which was strewn with samples and tubes and other bits of flotsam Lestrade didn't recognize but seriously hoped were not important.

"Working. Now shut up or get out. I need to concentrate."

Anderson's face was nearly purple. "You have to get him out of here, sir. He's contaminating the evidence."

Sherlock scoffed. "Please. If anyone's contaminating anything, Anderson, it's you with your stupidity. Off with you."

"Sherlock. . ." started Lestrade, warning ringing in his voice.

He stared at him, clearly unsure why he was making a fuss. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you do want to actually solve this case, don't you?"

Lestrade sighed. "Come on, Anderson. Let's go get some coffee."

As they walked out of the room, Anderson glared at him in disbelief. "So you're just going to let your pet civilian rampage through my lab?"

"For now, yes. Don't worry. I'm going to ask the medical school if they'll take him off our hands for a while. And I'll make him get his own damn samples."

Anderson smiled at him. "Thank you. I'm sorry, he just. . ."

Lestrade placed a hand on his shoulder. "I know. I know. And I'm going to find a way to make this work." He sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Sorry, I haven't been sleeping well."

Anderson stopped, staring at him in concern. "That's an understatement if I ever head one. Are you alright?"

"Fine."

He shook his head. "No you aren't. You look like you took a couple spins through a wood chipper, if you don't mind me saying so."

"Wow. Thank you, Anderson." Lestrade frowned. "Anything else you want to get off your chest?"

"Sorry, I didn't mean it as an insult. It's just. . . We're all worried about you, sir. You've been. . . Erratic, to say the least. Are you sure you're fine?"

He sighed. "It's nothing. Really. I've just been hitting the pub a bit heavy lately. You know. Tough case and all that."

Anderson nodded, clearly still not believing this explanation. "Right. . . Ok. Fine. I won't ask again. But if there is ever anything I can do, just let me know."

"Thank you, Anderson." He smiled gently back at him. He might have a short temper, but he was a good man. Lestrade trusted him more than almost anyone else.

But not with this. This thing with Sherlock. . . This was a one-man battle.

"Now if you don't mind," he said, coughing gently, "I should probably see what I can do about getting your lab back."

* * *

><p>As Lestrade left the Yard that evening, he was so preoccupied that he barely noticed the car tailing him. That was until the rear passenger door opened and rough hands pulled him inside.<p>

"What in the. . . I'm a police officer! You can't. . ."

"Do be quiet, Lestrade," cooed a familiar voice. "This is for your own good."

"Mycroft?"

Sherlock's brother leaned into the light, smiling sadly at the DI.

"Yes. I'm afraid you've become a bit of a liability."

Lestrade's eyes widened. Oh God. He was going to die.

Mycroft chuckled. "Oh dear. No. Not like that. Do stop panicking. I'm not going to hurt you. Slap some sense into you, maybe."

"Then what do you want?"

"I want to help you with your problem. In return, I expect you to keep a closer eye on my brother for me. Can you do that?"

Lestrade frowned. "What problem? I don't have a problem!"

Mycroft sighed. "As I suspected. My dear Lestrade, you are on the fast track to becoming a ruined man. Again. But this time, it will be of your own doing. I won't have my brother associating with an alcoholic. You need help."

"So you kidnapped me."

"Oh my. So dramatic. Hardly. I merely have picked you up off the street, and I'm taking you somewhere where they can help you."

Lestrade's eyes widened in recognition. "You're putting me in a program?"

Mycroft nodded. "And you'd better make all the meetings. If you don't. . ." He tapped the side of his nose. "I'll know."

Lestrade was fuming. "How dare you? My personal life is none of your business. And if it weren't for you and your damned brother, I wouldn't be in this mess!"

"Oh, really?" Mycroft frowned. "But you see, it's too late for that. You're Sherlock's business. Which makes you my business. And if you can't deal with that, too bad for you. He's my brother, and I won't have him gallivanting about with just anyone. I like you, Lestrade. You have a lot of moxie." Mycroft's eyes flashed dangerously. "But don't push me, unless you want to see how far I will really go."

Lestrade gulped. "Fine. I'll do it."

Mycroft beamed at him. "Good man! Keep this up, and I see a big promotion in your future."

He shook his head. "I'm not a charity case, Mycroft. Nor will I be your pocket copper. You don't want me to push you? Don't push me either."

"Fair enough."

And he was deposited on the street outside a community centre before he had a chance to reply.

"Bloody Holmes brothers," he muttered, walking inside.

* * *

><p><strong>So I realized today that S1 aired in 2010, not 2009. . . so all the dates are off by a year. I managed to fix Chapters 4-6, but the first half of the fic is about a year off. Just pretend it's all ok, yeah? :**


	22. Chapter 6 Part 3: Give It All Up For You

**Speechless**

**Chapter 6.1: Give It All Up For You**

* * *

><p><strong>October 18, 2009<strong>

Time slipped by in the endless weary way it had, a brutal juxtaposition of intense excitement and periods of woeful boredom. Whole months went by where there was little more than a domestic murder, and then there were times when Lestrade honestly thought the world was going to end. But it never did. The days kept plodding by, an endless montage of paperwork, meetings, and the sensation of never quite being able to take hold of the important things.

Before Sherlock Holmes had entered his life, he was a world-weary man just waiting for something to change. Now, although his world had plunged into chaos, there was a sort of quiet optimism about him that had not been there before, although that was frequently overshadowed by frustration.

He was not a strong man in matters of will, as stubborn as he could be. His descent into alcoholism spoke enough of that. But he was trying, for the sake of the people who depended on him. He was cracked, but not broken. And he was determined enough to stay that way.

He'd been sober for nearly a year and a half now, he was proud to note, and his impulse to drink himself into oblivion - while it would never leave - was fading fast. He had too much to live for, he'd decided, to waste his time in a stupor.

But it was a daily struggle, particularly when Sherlock ended up in the middle of things. Today, for instance, the tall young man had stalked into his flat without knocking. Again.

"Lestrade, why hasn't anyone been murdered?"

He sighed, gazing up at him from his kitchen chair, placing his fork down on the side of his plate of eggs. He wasn't going to get to finish them, he was sure of it.

"I don't know. Maybe all the psychopaths are on holiday. You know, you could have just called me."

"Mmm," mused Sherlock, snatching up a piece of toast and staring at it, eyes glazing. "Phone's dead."

"Can't you recharge it?"

"No charger."

Lestrade was almost afraid to ask. "Why not?"

"Stole it." Sherlock sighed. "Can we talk about something important now?"

"Like what?" Lestrade stared at him. "And I thought we went over how petty theft was still a crime, yeah? Because I really should stop you."

"Oh, but you won't."

They stared at each other, Sherlock's bright eyes challenging Lestrade's will. He sighed. This was one game he was frightfully lousy at.

"No, you're right," he sighed, lowering his eyes. "I was saving this for Christmas, but. . ."

He stood up, walking over to the cupboard and pulling a small box from inside it.

"You needed a new one anyway. This is fully text-enabled. I know how much you like to text. Just please promise to use it wisely."

Sherlock stared with delight at the iPhone. "You can't afford this," he mused. "So why make such a grand gesture? Oh. I see. You want to be able to track me. . . Clever."

"Can I help it if I'd prefer to know where you are?" Lestrade smirked at him. He knew he'd win this round. "And besides, it's got internet, so you can resume your happy relationship with Google."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine. Thank you." He tossed the phone rather nonchalantly in his pocket. Lestrade grimaced. He wasn't sure why he'd hoped Sherlock would take better care of the new phone than he had his old one. But Sherlock was right. It had not been cheap. And on his salary, it was going to be instant noodles for a while.

Sherlock casually took a bite of toast, grimacing as he chewed before placing it on the table. "Well, I'm bored. Call me when things get interesting, will you?"

Lestrade nodded. "Just, please, Sherlock. . ."

"Hmm?"

"Please don't MAKE things interesting?"

"I can't promise anything."

And with that, he was gone. Lestrade sighed. Maybe Anderson was right. A leash would be a safer bet.

* * *

><p><strong>December 20, 2009<strong>

_lestrade want to see something cool? -SH_

Lestrade sighed. Two months of this. Why had he gotten unlimited texting?

_What is it this time? -G._

Suddenly, there was a loud series of beeps throughout the office. At first he thought that something was malfunctioning.

"Sir?" Sergeant Donovan stared at her phone in disbelief. "Some anonymous number just texted me. All it says is _shoddy labwork._"

"Oye!" cried Anderson from down the hall. "What the hell?"

Lestrade looked about the room, noting with shock that everyone was looking at their cell phones.

His phone beeped again.

_Cool, right? -SH_

He glared at his phone angrily. Of course Sherlock would have figured out how to send mass texts. He could tell this was going to be a problem.

"Everyone, just ignore that and get back to work," he commanded.

_Don't do that again. -G._

* * *

><p><strong>January 28, 2010<strong>

Lestrade was incensed. Not only had he told Sherlock not to do that mass-texting thing again, but this time he seemed determined to make him look the fool. In a press conference, no less! The public were mistrustful of the police enough without him pulling a stunt like that and pulling their competence into question.

"I'm going to bloody kill him," he mused. Though he had to admit that it was pretty amusing. If he could only do things like that when people's lives _weren't_ at stake. . . But then he wouldn't be Sherlock.

And he would never want him to be anything else.

Lestrade sighed, flopping into his office chair and staring at the ceiling, thinking about that drunken kiss again. It was strange, the way he always thought of that moment at the most inconvenient times. He would have said he was haunted by it if it had been a strictly negative memory.

But even now, years later, he was ambivalent about it. There was something infinitely bittersweet about it, the way Sherlock had blundered into the kiss, had told him he loved him. . . Sometimes if he thought hard enough he could still feel the heat of his breath in his ear. And yet, he had been drunk. And had not made a single move since. Lestrade had no way of knowing exactly where they stood, and had been too afraid to ask him while they were both sober.

He knew, had known for a long time that he loved Sherlock. And he had withstood so much pain and frustration by clinging to tiny droplets of hope that he felt the same. The look on his face in the hospital, the way he stared at Lestrade when he thought he wasn't looking, that single drunken confession. . .

He lank further into his chair, rustling through papers but not really seeing them. Circumstantial. It was all circumstantial. He had no proof. And he couldn't continue speculating. Not like this.

He needed real evidence. But how was he going to get it without. . . Oh, screw it. He'd just have to confront him.

But when?

* * *

><p><strong>February 5, 2010<strong>

"Another one? Where?" Lesdtrade leapt from his desk, grabbing his coat.

"Brixton," replied a rather stone-faced young constable. "Kids playing in an abandoned building found her."

He shook his head sadly. The ones with child witnesses were always the worst. He hated seeing any young person lose a little sliver of their innocence like that. He thought of his daughter, how he wanted her as far away from violence as possible.

"Anything else?"

The young man was looking at him expectantly. Something was different.

"She. . . There's a note," he said.

That was all he needed.

"You drive," he ordered. "We have to make a stop first."

This was it. The day. Sherlock would surely be interested in this one. And when he solved it, then they would finally get a chance to talk.

* * *

><p>"Who's this?" Lestrade quickly looked over the world-weary man who limped into the room after Sherlock. Small, athletic build. Blond.<p>

"He's with me."

That alone was unusual. Sherlock never said anyone was _with _him. And he hated spectators even more than Lestrade did.

"But who is he?" he asked weakly, already dreading the answer. The way Sherlock hissed his reply said everything he needed to know. He looked the man over again in a blind panic. No. No, this wasn't how this was supposed to go.

He quickly pulled his business face on. He would have to process it all later. Right now, there was a case to solve.

But in his head, he couldn't stop himself from speculating. Another brother? Unlikely. Sherlock hated Mycroft so much that it seemed impossible another would be on such good terms with him. Friend? No, Sherlock didn't even consider Lestrade a friend, after all he'd done for him. So there were only a few possibilities, and he didn't like any of them. Lover, then? Had he waited too long?

"Shut up," snapped Sherlock.

"I didn't say anything," he replied, praying that was true.

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

He sighed in relief. At least Sherlock was still Sherlock.

"Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

And now he was asking this stranger for help? Lestrade couldn't stop himself from protesting. What the hall was he thinking, bringing someone new with him? He threw up some excuses about regulations, but he knew it was useless. He'd stopped following regulations with Sherlock ages ago.

He just smirked back, wiping all resistance away with that single phrase: "Because you need me."

Lestrade stared into his eyes, trying to think of how to express exactly how true that was. He had always needed Sherlock, from the day they'd met. It had started as a search for redemption, for answers. But over time, it hade become so much more than that. He needed Sherlock not just as an investigator. He needed him as a friend. He needed him by his side, always. And nothing, no one was going to change that.

"Yes I do," he replied, his voice shaking as he begged him not to leave him hopeless. "God help me."

But Sherlock ignored him, turning to this Dr. Watson instead. Lestrade couldn't take it. Why was he doing this? Why?

He stalked out of the room, praying Sherlock wouldn't see the betrayal on his face. Why now?

* * *

><p><strong>Ok, I really hate incorporating real dialogue, so I'm skipping a lot of the really great scenes<strong>** and just using enough for context. This chapter was a bitch to write, but I can promise that things will turn out differently than you might fear. Bear with me.**


	23. Chapter 6 Part 4: If I Promise

**Speechless**

**Chapter 6.4: If I Promise Boy To You **

**DATES are no longer relevant, so I am disposing of them now that we've entered series canon.**

* * *

><p>It had been weeks since Doctor John Watson had strode into Sherlock's life like he owned it, and Lestrade still wasn't sure how he felt about the new addition to their little group. At first, the young army doctor had seemed to respect their relationship. . . If that was the word for it. He had stood at a distance, had watched them with curious interest. . . But that was all.<p>

"You know him better than I do."

Lestrade hadn't known how to react to that statement. It was the truth, wasn't it? But there was an edge to that simple statement, a question left unspoken but understood.

_Just how well do you know each other?_

He had gulped to himself, trying to figure out how to deal with that statement.

"I've known Sherlock Holmes for five years," he managed, watching the man's eyes darken. Shit. So he _was_ interested in Sherlock. This called for a change in tactics.

"And no I don't," he added rather hastily.

No way was he going to admit his feelings to a stranger when he hadn't even told Sherlock yet. Besides, going by the way the detective had looked at this fellow. . . Perhaps his window of opportunity had already closed.

So he had come to the crime scene, had talked with Sherlock, brimming with relief that the man he would gladly trade his life for was alive and well. They had bickered, just like old times, and it was just so incredible that perhaps he'd leapt to a bad conclusion. Perhaps this was the moment when he could finally tell him. . .

And then he watched him spy John from across the police tape, had watched them walk away together, laughing like schoolgirls. And that was it.

He'd lost.

He'd never had a chance.

Yes, maybe he'd meant something to the younger man once. But really, how could he ever compete with this new interest? John was young, broken, short-tempered, fiery, and clearly wasn't afraid of risking his life for Sherlock.

Lestrade wasn't a fool. He knew who'd shot the cabbie before Sherlock had gotten a sentence in. It was something he'd never have the strength to do, taking another man's life like that. Even in the Royal Navy, he'd never been able to. Perhaps that was why he'd chosen the Navy when he'd been given the choice. Less likely to see action. He wasn't a coward. He just wanted to save lives, not end them.

Yet here was a man willing to die for Sherlock, willing to give up everything for him, and they'd only just met. No, this Doctor Watson was interesting. Lestrade was afraid that Sherlock had simply gotten bored with him, with the twisted man he could never be again.

He sighed, looking over at Donovan.

"I'm going to be gone for a while. Do keep an eye on them, will you?"

And then he was gone.

* * *

><p>The official story was that Lestrade was working another case, and that was true, in a manner. The case he was working on was his own past, however, and the darkness he had fled.<p>

The streets of Croydon were cleaner than he remembered. Of course, it had been a long time since the DI had found himself there. After all, a man who fears ghosts does not seek them out.

He paused briefly by a door on Wellesley Road, staring at it with a sort of broken melancholy. He traced the flaking paint on the doorframe with one hand.

His house. Mother's house.

No one appeared to be home, but that was for the best. He had no reason to see which of his siblings - if any - lived there now, nor did he want to see the squalor of his birth. There was a reason why he had always tried to get away, why the police had rounded him up and sent him to sea, why he had gone gladly.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, continuing down the street into a nearby alley.

Here. It was here. So close to his childhood home, the place where everything changed.

Where he had spilled his first blood.

But it was self defense. Self defense. He had never wanted to. . . The man was after his sister, little Ellen, just barely sixteen. . .

He had just returned from his time hunting nuclear submarines, his hair short and his shoulders suddenly so broad. His family had barely recognized him as the punk-ass delinquent he'd been when he left. He was a man, just barely a man.

Adjusting to civilian life had been hard. So he didn't. He'd joined the police almost immediately, starting as a young Constable in Croydon's safer neighborhood team, patrolling the streets where he used to lurk. It was fitting, he'd told himself. Maybe he could change a life the way his had been changed.

He'd never meant to end one instead.

The screams had drawn him to the alley, his heart pounding with adrenaline. And when he had seen the man towering over his sister, her dress torn and eyes wild with fright, he'd not been able to pull himself back. He'd tried to arrest the man, but he'd come at him with a knife. And before he'd entirely realized what had happened, the knife was in the man's throat, he was clutching a cut on his arm, and his sister was holding him, weeping.

Self defense. Then why did it haunt him? Why could he still see the blood, still smell the man's life pouring over his hands?

He sighed, sinking to his knees.

The darkness had never left. Not really. He knew that. But all he could do was to keep fighting for his city. And for him.

* * *

><p>"Where the hell have you been?"<p>

He stared in shock as the young army doctor nearly threw himself across his desk at him.

"Sorry?"

Watson's eyes burned with anger.

"I asked where you've been. I've been trying to reach you for weeks."

Lestrade's eyes grew wide. If the man was that desperate to find him. . .

"Is Sherlock -"

"Oh, he's fine. Just superb. I mean, we both almost died, but I suppose that whatever you were working on was important too."

"What?" Lestrade stared at him. "But I left you backup. I did. Didn't Dimmock help you at all?"

Watson sighed, sinking into a chair. The man was clearly exhausted. "You really think Sherlock got on well with him? You know he only works with you."

Lestrade's heart caught in his throat. Really? He'd never been away long enough for it to be an issue before. Sherlock really wouldn't work with anyone else?

"I suppose I should have thought of that." No he shouldn't of. How could he? He'd no way of knowing. . .

Watson smiled at him, though his eyes betrayed a burning rage. "I suppose you should have. Really, promise me you won't leave again."

"Why would I do that? Sherlock's a grown man. He can take care of himself."

"No!" Watson slammed his fist on the table. "He's right. You're an idiot. You weren't there. You didn't see the way he. . . Are you really so dense? The man's completely different when you're gone. He barely. . . He was almost slow."

"Sherlock? Slow? I know some people who'd pay good money to see that."

"You aren't taking this seriously, Detective Inspector."

"And why should I?" He was tired of it, tired of Sherlock, and tired of this new flat mate of his. "Why should I, when he has you?"

The younger man's deep blue eyes softened, and he sighed. "I knew it. Is that what this is all about? Look. If it's any consolation, it's not going to happen."

"What isn't?" But he already knew.

"Me and him. I mean, sometimes I. . . but it's him, you know? He'll never. . . Not in this lifetime."

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah. I know. But what if he does?"

"Hmm?"

"Think about it. One day, what if he does? He's bound to choose one of us. Or neither of us. What do we do then?"

Watson smiled sadly at him. "I'll let you know when I figure it out. But please, Lestrade," he looked at him, his eyes filled with concern. "Don't leave again."

"Call me Greg." He smiled sadly at the doctor. "And I won't if you won't."

"Agreed. Greg," he added with a smile, easing himself out of the chair.

_And may the best man win, _he thought, watching the shorter man leave.

_And may that man be me._

* * *

><p><em><strong>ONE MORE UPDATE! This fic ends tomorrow!<strong>  
><em>


	24. Epilogue: You Choose Any Girl But Me

**Speechless**

**EPILOGUE: You Choose Any Girl But Me **

* * *

><p>Weeks slipped into months, slipped into years. Before his eyes, Lestrade watched his city change. Shops closed, new ones opened. The battlefield was sometimes strewn with bodies, sometimes starkly bare. Sometimes, the bodies were friends.<p>

Sometimes lovers.

That winter, Aster succumbed to pneumonia after a long battle with a respiratory infection. Lestrade wasn't even aware she was sick until he'd learned she was in the hospital thanks to Sherlock nearly getting himself blown up. Again. The guilt of losing touch with someone he had once loved so well was consuming.

As he stood by her gravesite as they laid her to rest, he did his best not to cry, to try and be strong for his daughter. Grace stood between him and Rick, her deep brown eyes rimmed with tears. She was nearly seven now. When had that happened?

He stroked the top of her head gently, remembering the feel of her mother's hair against his cheek. Why had he given this up? What had been the point?

"Aster was a good woman," said Rick, his voice shaking as he too fought back tears. In his arms, little Stephen Ambrose, Grace's half-brother, squirmed and cooed. He did not understand what was going on. He was too young.

"The best," agreed Lestrade, offering his arms to Rick, who passed him the toddler. He rocked the boy gently, humming to himself, focusing on this young life rather than the one no longer present. They would survive this. They would survive this, and he would make more time for his daughter.

As they left the graveyard, Lestrade noticed a dark figure lurking behind one of the mausoleums. He paused, looking about. Almost everyone else had already left. He pulled Grace into a bear hug.

"Go with Rick, love. I'll be along shortly."

* * *

><p>"Sherlock, I. . ."<p>

The tall, lanky man smirked gently at him, his eyes bright and analytical as always.

"What? Thought I didn't know? I do read the paper, you old dolt."

Lestrade sighed. "That's not the. . . Why are you here? I thought you and John had plans to -"

"Ah. Yes." Sherlock's eyes darkened. The hunt for Moriarty had continued to a frantic obsession. Both men were running themselves ragged over it. Lestrade would have been as well, had he not had other things on his plate. . . And if Sherlock bothered to share evidence.

"I do believe halting investigations for a few hours when someone I. . . it made sense to stop by. Aster was always kind to me."

"What?" Lestrade smirked. "No she wasn't! She hated you most of the time."

"Clearly, Greg, you don't understand women."

He laughed in astonishment. "And you do?"

"Women are people. They have motives and patterns just like men do. Of course I understand them." Sherlock glared at him like he was an idiot. "Anyway, that's not the point. I'm not really here for her. She's dead. She won't care."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Thank you, Sherlock. I'd forgotten that my ex wife was _dead."_

Sherlock waved his hand, sighing. "Sarcasm aside, Lestrade, are you alright?"

He stared at the younger man. That was one question he never thought he'd hear from him. And one he never thought he'd have an honest answer to.

"Honestly, no."

Sherlock stared at him for what felt like an eternity, that enigmatic light in his eyes again. Lestrade had grown addicted to that glow over the years, and seeing it again, even at this terrible time, made his heart leap.

And then suddenly, Sherlock's arms were around him, wrapping him in a tight - albeit stiff and rather awkward - embrace.

"I'm sorry." He whispered in Lestrade's ear, his breath rustling the grey hair around his temples. "I'm so, so sorry."

Lestrade sighed, pulling the younger man close. "For what, Sherlock? There is nothing left to apologize for."

Sherlock pulled away, his eyes inquisitive. "But don't you wish we'd never met? Wouldn't your life have been simpler?"

He had a point. Lestrade thought about it. Before Sherlock, he'd had a good if not promising career. He and Aster were happy in their simple home. Everything was quiet and normal and safe.

But if he'd never met Sherlock, many people would have died, or their murders would have gone unavenged. If he'd never met Sherlock, he would have seen the battle as a battle already lost. If he'd never met Sherlock, he would have never learned how to channel his own darkness.

And if he'd never met Sherlock, he would have never been more than half a person.

He shook his head gently. "No. Sherlock, don't ever think that. My life might have been simpler. But it wouldn't have been nearly as good."

Sherlock smiled warmly at him, though his eyes still betrayed a deep and lasting sadness. He supposed that would always be there. There were some things no doctor or DI could cure. Perhaps someday he'd finally unravel that mystery. But he knew that day would probably never come.

"Well, I should probably go. John will be wondering where I got to."

Lestrade coughed, the spell broken. "Yes, I imagine he will."

Sherlock nodded slightly. "Tell your daughter hello for me."

"Why don't you tell her yourself?"

They both turned, startled, to see Rick standing there, holding Grace's hand.

"I thought you'd left," murmured Lestrade, suddenly feeling very exposed.

Rick smiled, his blue eyes flashing with amusement. "I did leave. Grace made me come back."

Lestrade sighed. The girl was pigheaded, just like her mother.

"Takes after her father," mused Sherlock.

"What?"

He grinned. "Neither of you know when to call it quits. Come here."

He scooped Grace up into his arms, smiling broadly as she wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled in close.

"Now now, Sherlock," warned Lestrade playfully. "Don't make me get a gun."

As detective and little girl grinned at him, their smiles eerily similar, Lestrade saw a flash of light. He turned in alarm, realizing that Rick had a camera.

"I thought you might like a picture," he said. "Of your family."

He felt a warmth rise in his belly. Rick was right, after all. Whatever it meant, regardless of how the future played out, this was his family.

His innocent, brilliant, beautiful daughter. His detective, whatever that really meant.

As he looked over at him, Sherlock's eyes. . . His smile. . . That enigmatic glow. . .

Perhaps, the whole time, the one thing he could never read in his face. . . was love.

Regardless, Lestrade had finally found something worth fighting for.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you all so much for your kind reviews and loyal readership. It's been fun. . . but the story's not entirely over. <strong>

**When I'm done with "The Burned Man" (Sherlock/ Burn Notice crossover), I'll be writing a prequel to "Speechless," called "Monster." **

**Hope you all will read my other work if you loved this one!**


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